


The King's White Falcon

by Snowgrouse



Series: The King's White Falcon [1]
Category: Original Work, Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Androgynous male character, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Bondage, Cunnilingus, Dark Het, Depression, Depression Recovery, Dominant Male Character, F/M, Falconry, Fantasy, Fellatio, Healing, Healing Sex, Heroine/Villain, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Liberating Sex, Light Bondage, Magic, Magic as sex aid, Magic-Users, Middle Ages, Muslim Character(s), Muslim characters, Mysticism, Oral Sex, POV Female Character, Poetry, Queer Het, Romance, Service Top, Spanking, Spiritual, Submissive Female Character, Telepathic Bondage, The Golden Age of Islam, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Vaginal Sex, costume porn, erotic romance, heterosexual anal sex, mindfulness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Come when you hear the call; come and return to the home of your soul. Like the king's white falcon, fly to your master's hand when you hear the sound of his drum. Come, come, let your soul return to the one who has always loved you." </i>
</p><p>Three years have passed, and her fairytale with Ahmad is coming to an end. Heartbroken, tired of living, Yassamin realises how much she has in common with the exiled Jaffar: someone trapped, stripped of his freedom and his dreams, locked in a gilded cage. Once word arrives that Jaffar is dying, she knows she cannot remain in Baghdad a day longer. </p><p>She has to make amends, yet little does she know of the entire new life that awaits her in Samarkand: the life of a woman cherished, respected, a Yassamin passionately, intelligently and fiercely loved--by Jaffar, the beast she had been so terrified of. If she can but grow out of her own fear and her anguish and brave the embrace of the dark sorcerer she had once hated with all her heart, in his arms will she find the greatest love of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's White Falcon

**Author's Note:**

> A tale of losing oneself and of being found; of hope, magic and fierce love. For in this version of the tale, it is not with the dull-witted prince that the princess will find her happily ever after, but with the wicked wizardly vizier. AU in which Yassamin is an intelligent, educated woman you would've found at the medieval Persian courts and Ahmad still the dullard he is in the original movie. Jaffar, in turn, like his historical predecessor Ja'far ibn Yahya, is a great lover of books and knowledge and a true mystic at heart. Thus, this story aims to revert the characters--the nameless pretty princess and the great man who got saddled with a historical villain upgrade--closer to what they truly would have been in the era of the Thousand and One Nights. 
> 
> Presented in glorious Technicolor. With extra helpings of super-saturated hurt/comfort, deep romance, spirituality, poetry and steamy, lengthy, explicit sex.

[ ](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Veidt/whitefalcons2.jpg)

_Whose feet are worthy_  
_to enter the garden?_  
_Whose eyes are worthy_  
_of the cypress and the jasmine?_  
_The feet and eyes of a heart_  
_that has been broken._  


\--Rumi

***

**Book One**

***

Three years have passed, and she is suffocating.

It had been a beautiful dream while it'd lasted. And what a picture she and Ahmad had made: she in her brave hero's arms, he with his kingship restored and the wicked Jaffar banished to Samarkand. Ahmad had been kind to her, had showered her with gifts, with tenderness. And for a short while, she had been truly happy, the princess with her prince in their grand palace, ruling over a happy and prosperous people.

And yet, when the first rush of love had faded, she had discovered just how empty her dream had been on the inside, how empty her handsome prince. Ahmad would always be busy ruling, this she could accept and understand. But even in the evenings, when they shared many an hour together, she could never converse with him on a deep level, never find in her prince what she was looking for: a soul. 

For it was a kindred soul she yearned to communicate with, to bond with, to share her life with, yet she could not find one in him. Oh, superficial talk they could manage. Court affairs, politics, the weather. And he could always recite the latest poems to her with that beautiful, melodious voice of his, in an attempt to soothe her heart. But the words of love and spirit were never his own; they would be hand-me-downs, written by someone else's pen. It was not that he didn't mean well, for he truly cared for her, in his own simple way. This she knew. But in her heart of hearts, she wondered if he would not recite poetry to any princess, any beautiful woman who had happened to enter his life at the right moment, at the right time. For it was a princess he had fallen in love with, and he still fancied himself the djinni of the pool.

And outside that fairytale, there was little else. She would spend her days reading and would rush to him, excited, eager to discuss a fantastical new story she'd read or a new interpretation of Aristotle, or a treatise on some ingenious new mechanical device built by the Musa brothers. But when she would look into his eyes, seeking a response, they would remain blank. He would feign polite interest, of course, and would glance at the books and maybe nod a little, but could not be engaged in conversation about their contents. Books meant nothing to him, whether fact or fiction. Science baffled him. Philosophy, he could not get his head around. And it frightened her to realise how little they had in common, how little they shared, how little connection there was between them in the end. She could not speak to him of what stirred her heart, what stirred her intellect. And were those things not the sum of a person, what one's soul consisted of: their passions, their thoughts?

Every time he snapped a book shut, every time he would hand one back and dismiss her with a "Yes, my dear," he would--knowingly or not--dismiss her and all she was, all she knew and thought and felt. Through those books and through her own words, she was reaching out, was offering her very self to him, seeking to connect with the man she had thought she loved. She had entire worlds inside of herself, worlds she wanted to share with the one who was supposed to be the other half of her soul, yet he never stepped inside.

With each passing day, with each small rejection, her heart died a little. And as her love started to die, parts of her soul would grow numb because keeping them alive and feeling would have hurt too much. So, to protect herself from pain, she would read less, speak less, think less, and her soul would slowly start to wither.

In front of their court, Ahmad seemed happy or at least pretended happiness, offering her praise, offering poems to her beauty. And yet she could not help feeling he was doing it because it was the done thing--no civilised man, let alone a ruler, would dare show his face at court if he could not recite a few lines of passion or wit. Even if the man who recited them knew little about passion, having always had what he wanted, having only lost his kingdom for a few days. Once he'd had his kingdom back, he had settled into a life of complacency, never again yearning for a life beyond the palace gates. His adventure had been a youthful detour, no more, and he now spoke of it with some embarrassment. It's as if he was ashamed to admit he had once spent days as a beggar, that he had once defied blindness and death for the sake of a woman. Such weaknesses were fatal to a king, and a wise king would know better than to submit to such folly again. He was a grown man, now, he declared, with duties to attend to, and adventure and romance were things best left to poets and storytellers. But since poems and adventure stories were considered fashionable and civilised amusements, he participated in their telling.

Sometimes, they would be stories and poems she herself had offered to him, stories and poems that had spoken to her own heart and he had rejected, and that was the worst torture of all. She would have preferred death to sitting there with a false smile on her face, having to hear him recite her favourite poems to the court with no real emotion whatsoever, like a schoolboy who had learned them by rote. She would dig her nails into her palms and think _is this not the definition of spoil, of rape? Taking something beautiful, not caring for its soul, using it and abusing it and then casting it aside?_ Such was her pain as he took the words of her very soul and treated them, and thus, _her_ as he might have treated a washrag.

Ahmad's lips might have spoken of cruel and beautiful roses and the yearning of the nightingale, yet it seemed as if he had never understood, had never known the true meaning of yearning. And she yearned, oh, she yearned for something more than this; yet in vain, for this was her life and that was the end of it. She had a hundred ladies-in-waiting, a hundred more noblewomen eager to entertain and to please her, to converse with her in the palace gardens. But whenever she would try to talk to them of the secrets mystics saw in the unfolding of a rose, of how the Indians would liken the hum of bees to the song of a lover, of how the garden's irrigation system was based on the techniques developed by Archimedes, they would either titter with nervous incomprehension or cast their eyes down, murmuring "Yes, mistress," and then change the subject. And for them, the subjects were always children or fashions or whatever handsome young nobleman they had caught sight of through the harem's latticed windows.

These subjects, they never tired of, and yet she wanted more, to know and experience and discuss the wider world outside. Was it only allowed for men? Had she been born one of those unfortunate women with the souls of men? She could not believe it would be anything that simple, and was sure there was more to life than this. She dug her nails into her palms in frustration at the smallness of their world, of _her_ world, of the confinement of her body and her soul.

She was not meant to be here. Something had gone deeply, horribly wrong. Even if it was foolish of her to think so, because this was the way things were meant to be. God did not make mistakes, for he had written an individual destiny out for each and every soul in his book and it was the duty of each soul to obey its maker. Yet in some dark corner of her mind, she blasphemed: _if this were to be my destiny, I would tear out the pages and burn them._

***

The months pass, the leaves wither and fall, and she sits in her garden, alone. In her lap lies a book of mystical poems, latticed with blue and golden vines. In the margin, standing tall in his powdered-sapphire robes, a lord reaches out his hand to a bird, tenderly, as if speaking the verses embellished above him:

_"Come when you hear the call; come and return to the home of your soul. Like the king's white falcon, fly to your master's hand when you hear the sound of his drum. Come, come, let your soul return to the one who has always loved you."_

But she has no beloved to return to. She knows self-pity is the greatest of vanities and helps no one, but despite herself, she bursts into tears. And when the tears come, they are a flood. She weeps from the entire depth of her loneliness, from that hollow place in her heart that should be filled to the brim with the warmth of love. But she has no one, no one who has loved her always. The mystic who wrote the poem will always have his gentle, loving God to return to, but she is not ready to give up the world and become a dervish yet. She weeps and she weeps, her tears washing the lord's face off the page.

***

Ahmad tells her merchants have arrived from Samarkand, bearing great news: Jaffar is dying. He's been taken ill with fever, and as the merchants have travelled for weeks, he might already be dead and they just don't know it yet.

Ahmad raises a toast, then another, third, wishing Jaffar good riddance, but she is disgusted with his behaviour. In her anger, she tells him Jaffar may have been a monster, but that he, Ahmad, is turning into one as well, rejoicing so in the suffering of others.

"My queen!" he laughs incredulously, with not a little malice. "You of all people would defend him, after what he tried to do to you?"

"He still has a soul, one that's already been defeated. What joy is there in kicking a sick dog?"

"The joy of vengeance. That sick dog you so pity murdered your father." There's an accusing glow in Ahmad's eyes, made hotter by the wine. "Surely you would want him to pay?"

She does not answer, but gets up from her cushion and takes two steps away from Ahmad, from his anger. Even as her heart pounds in her ears and her body tenses in fear, she realises she has genuine sympathy for Jaffar. For someone trapped, stripped of his freedom and his dreams, locked in a gilded cage.

Ahmad gets up and grabs her by the shoulders. "Answer me. Do you not hate him?" When she still refuses to answer, he laughs in her face. "Or is that it? Is that why you no longer wish to share my bed? Might it be that you loved him all along?" He means to be cruel, flippant, but there is a genuine flash of jealousy in his feverish eyes. "Answer me, wife."

"Oh, Ahmad. You are drunk."

She turns away, but he grabs her shoulders again, spinning her around with violent force. "Why are you avoiding the question?" he breathes in her face, his pupils wide with inebriated fury. She searches his eyes and wonders what he sees in his mind, what sorts of scenarios he must now be playing out in his head to fan his newfound jealousy: whether he is imagining her and Jaffar exchanging kisses while he himself had been blinded, whether he imagines her surrendering to Jaffar on his ship, their naked limbs entwining. 

In that moment, she hates Ahmad so much, so much she wishes she had done all those things and more.

"Let me go."

"Oh, I will let you go indeed." Ahmad uncurls his fingers from her shoulders and steps back, staggering, returning to his cushions and his wine. He drinks deep, and does not look up at her. " _I divorce thee._ "

She closes her eyes and shivers. One. He only has to say the divorce formula twice more and then it will all be over. The prince will have left his princess and the fairytale will be over; the spell will have been broken. Instead of fear, anger, sadness, it is a sudden relief that now washes over her. "Thank you."

"That's not what you're supposed to say!" He swears loudly, throwing his cup at her head, but it shatters against the wall instead, the wine dripping down the wall like blood. "I divorce thee," he repeats, waiting for an answer.

He is expecting her to weep, he is expecting her to throw herself at his feet, to beg for him to reconsider. But she won't. Her heart is light, so light, and even if she has nowhere to go, the door of her cage has opened. And she is about to step out.

She straightens her back, for she has decided.

"I am leaving for Samarkand."

He laughs, bitterly. "I should've known. You've just proven yourself guilty."

"I am familiar with the law, yes." A man may divorce his wife by saying "I divorce thee" three times, but he has to wait for an allotted number of days between the second and final time, in case there will be a reconciliation. During that time, he is not allowed to drive his wife out of the house nor may she leave herself, unless she is guilty of great indecency. 

Leaving will mean she will be automatically considered an adulteress, and she will never be able to show her face in the palace again. She will lose her reputation, she will lose everything, for a crime she has not committed. And the refuge she seeks, with a man she does not even love, might be denied her, or he might be dead by the time she arrives. And yet, right now, even if she knows she is a fool, she would rather risk everything than remain here a day longer.

It is Ahmad who breaks down, now, falling onto his cushions, covering his face with his hands, weeping loudly. "What did I do wrong?" he curls up and sobs pitifully.

When she looks at him, her heart aches for him, the lost and confused little child weeping on the floor. And a child he will remain, but she cannot be a wife to a child. She kneels beside him, hugs him like a mother would and kisses his forehead. "I am sorry, Ahmad." 

He sobs and he snorts, weeping uncontrollably against her shoulder, clasping her hands, even if he must know there is no turning back. "I could try. I could try to be a better husband. I--"

"Ahmad. Shh."

"I just don't understand," he whispers, playing with the hem of her jacket. "Why should I let you go?"

She rocks him and sighs into his hair. "Because I cannot bear it any longer." She is weeping now, too. Two foolish children; that's what they have been. "Please, Ahmad. If you have ever loved me, please set me free."

He looks up, hurt, choking down another sob. "I don't want you in that monster's arms."

"Ahmad." She hugs him once more. "If you must know, I never have been his. I am going there to apologise. It's my fault he is in Samarkand; it's because of his love for me that he did what he did. I cannot bear the thought of him dying and cursing my name with his last breath."

"How do you know _I_ won't curse your name with my last breath?"

"Because you won't."

He wipes his nose on his sleeve and leans his head against her chest. "I'll give you fourteen of my guards and three maidservants. Is that enough?"

"Yes, Ahmad." She hugs him tight. "That's more than enough."

***

The journey takes eight weeks by horse, and by the end of it, she is exhausted. In their way, the stress and the fatigue of the long journey are blessings. When she has to stay mindful of her horse, to negotiate the safest routes with the guards in order to avoid robbers, when she gets to talk to passing merchants, she can keep her mind busy and focused on something else than her own sadness. It is only in the caravanserais that she feels most scared, most acutely aware of her self-imposed exile, and it is at night that the fears sink their talons into her heart and tear at it. 

Whenever she meets traders travelling in the opposite direction, the first question to leave her lips is "What news of Jaffar?" as if the salvation of her very soul hinged upon it. Every time someone tells her he is still ill, she breathes a sigh of relief; every time someone tells her he doesn't know, she is plunged into despair until there are further news.

Even if she knows she is slowly going mad, she still tries to make sense of her madness. She has been trapped for so long that this penitent's pilgrimage, this act of seeking forgiveness is the only way in which she can feel she is actually doing something with her life, doing something good. She yearns to comfort a dying man, even if that man had wanted to do unspeakable things to her; because somewhere deep inside, she has a gnawing fear that his ghost will come back to accuse her on Judgement Day. Before, she could spend days not thinking of Jaffar, but now something in her mind has fixated itself on his forgiveness, even if she doesn't know whether he'd only throw her apology back in her face. She does not even know what Jaffar thinks, and that's where she realises she is not sane.

How could she know what he felt? She did not even know what he had felt three years ago--whether he had been genuinely in love with her or whether he had wanted to claim her as yet another possession, the way he had claimed the throne. Why is she, then, painting these images of him as a trapped animal to be pitied, turning him into her agent of salvation? Why should she think there was anything wrong in her rejection of him, the disgust she had felt for him? 

A travelling physician tells her it's but her melancholy humours; that one often feels guilt for things one should not feel guilty for if one's mind is imbalanced in such a manner. Jaffar was a tyrant, he tells her as he packs his bags, and it was only right for her to refuse him. Had God himself not struck him down in the end?

It is not much of an absolution.

***

When they finally reach the outskirts of Samarkand, she sends her most trusted bodyguard to Jaffar's house, asking him to tell him a lady is begging for an audience. "Don't tell anyone who I am, Karim. Just ask to see him personally, and give him this." She hands him a heavy gold bracelet, one Jaffar had given to her on his ship. "Tell him the one who owns it--" she hesitates, because as much as she has thought of it, played the phrase over in her mind, her words sound overblown and embarrassing even to her own ears. "Tell him she has come to apologise."

She frets for the rest of the evening, pacing across her caravanserai room. Even the ritual of having to ask for an audience is ridiculous and she knows it. Jaffar is little more than a prisoner in his palace, and subject to Ahmad's will--and by extension, hers. Were he here, Ahmad would simply laugh at her and just march in with his guards; this, she knows. 

But she isn't Ahmad, nor is she an extension of him; not any longer.

Finally, Karim arrives, kneeling at her feet. "My lady."

She takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Well?"

"He has granted your request, my lady. He will receive you tomorrow morning, on one condition: that you arrive alone." He sounds apologetic; as a request it sounds most suspicious and not befitting the honour of a lady. Despite the rumours of her infidelity, some of her most faithful servants have always loved her too much to believe them. Old Karim, in particular, has always felt fatherly towards her. "May I be allowed to escort you at least?" he asks, his eyes full of concern.

"You may. Thank you, Karim. You may go now."

She sits down on her bed, feeling dizzy, trying to gather her thoughts. How should she approach him? She doesn't even know what she will find. There are so many ways in which this could go wrong, and all of them plague her mind that night as she twists and turns on her bed, unable to sleep.

***

Jaffar's palace rises before her and around her with its blue-tiled domes, its lavishly honeycombed ceilings looming over long and vast corridors. For a large house, it has little staff; only enough for the care of its occupant but not its upkeep. The ochre paint on the courtyard's pillars has started to flake and there are patches of unswept dust in the corners. Months' worth of blue-green algae float in the once-magnificent fountains, as if Jaffar's illness had allowed the servants to finally give up on the pretense and let this palace turn into the tomb it was meant to be. The few remaining servants whisper amongst themselves as she is led through the hallways; knowing smiles and shaken heads accompany her journey to his private quarters. Jaffar had explicitly requested no servants should be present, so when the heavy door of his bedchamber closes behind her, she breathes a sigh of relief and drops her veil to her shoulders.

It's very quiet in the room, especially for someone so used to the music of fountains and the babble of parrots in grand bedrooms like these. The silence unsettles her, and she instinctively slows down her steps, tiptoeing towards the low bed upon which Jaffar lies, kneeling very carefully beside it in order to not disturb the silence. 

What she sees makes her heart stop, and before she can catch herself, she gasps, then quickly covers her mouth in shame at her reaction.

For before her lies a suffering animal indeed, far from the man she had so loathed and feared. She remembers a tall, imposing man, but this Jaffar seems very small underneath the frayed silk bedcovers, little more than a skeleton. His face has grown pale from a lack of sunlight, his cheeks have sunken in, and a thick beard frames his thin, colourless lips. For a panicked second, she wonders if she is staring at a corpse.

It is then that he opens his eyes, and she flinches. His gaze, even when consumed with fever, is as piercing as it ever was. Yet there is no longer hope or tenderness in it from the days when he used to gaze at her with desire: it is the look of a bitter, dying man. 

He tries to speak, but the first thing that comes out of his throat is a croak. In lieu of words, he closes his skeletal fingers around her wrist, their touch burning her skin. 

Despite the shivers of fear lashing down her spine, she sits down next to him. He does not speak, merely looks at her and takes her in, running his eyes up and down her body. The old hunger and lust are gone from his gaze, and his lips curl in a scornful smile.

"So. Have you come to gloat? Or to offer yourself, perhaps?" He digs his long nails into her wrist, leering at her cruelly. "I regret I am no longer capable of wild ravishments, my lady, so I am afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you in that regard."

She turns her face away. She knows he is mocking her because it is the only way he can hurt her, now. She cannot blame him. "I have come to apologise."

"Isn't it a little too late?" With a dry laugh, he lets go of her wrist and lets his hand fall to the bed.

She takes his hand in turn and kisses his palm, hoping against hope that a gesture of tenderness will temper his acrimony. "No. I truly am sorry, Jaffar."

He cups her face, his fingers trembling against her cheek. "But you are _cruel_ ," he whispers. "Cruel to have come here, now. The kindest thing would have been to never let me see your face again. For three years, I tried to forget it. You've won, Ahmad has won; what more do you want from me? Do you truly need me to salve your conscience?" His hand falls to the bed once more. "No, you don't. You've come for the satisfaction of watching me die." His lashes fall against his cheeks and he grimaces. His entire body trembles with chills, and she knows that were he in full health, he would've stormed out of the room by now. He draws in a heaving, rasping breath. "I know I disgusted you, but never did I realise you hated me so much."

"Jaffar, that's not true. I want you to forgive me. Please."

He opens his eyes, and they are glittering with tears.

"Leave."

"No."

He blinks, tears rolling down his temples as he keeps on staring at her, full of impotent fury.

"I _loved_ you. I wanted to make you happy, and you refused me. Why should I ever want to make you happy again, if it causes me nothing but pain? What if this, withholding my forgiveness, is my last chance at revenge?" His laughter is interrupted by coughs. "Oh, petty, I know. But it's nothing in comparison to the suffering you've caused me."

Finally, she snaps. "How do you--do you think I have not suffered? Do you think I've been happy?" She is shouting and she does not care. "Does it look like I'm happy?" She is this close to leaving, leaving this bitter, hateful, hopeless man to rot in his bed. "I've come here to help, Jaffar; I am genuinely sorry for what we did and Ahmad's a stupid idiot and I--"

He searches her eyes, curious. She doesn't know if it's hope that now lights up his eyes, or if he has just sensed a chance to slip another knife in. "So. Your charming prince turned out to be an idiot of a king. A very wise grand vizier could have told you that." He clasps her hand, smiling, but his voice is full of resignation. "You have left it too late, my queen. As you see, I am dying. I had powers, once, but I am now too weak to wield them."

She reaches into her jacket and lifts a pouch onto the bed. "Here. The best theriac the court physician could think of. It's a new formula, purported to heal every illness under the sun."

Jaffar raises his eyebrows. "And you really believe that?"

She shakes her head. "I am not a child. But it must work for some fevers at least; maybe even yours."

"Few men of my age survive long fevers, unless miracles happen. Who is this physician, this miracle-maker?"

"Geber."

Jaffar laughs out loud, triggering a coughing fit that lasts for long moments. His face is red as he finally manages to catch his breath, wheezing, wiping tears from his eyes. "My old court poisoner. You do have a sense of humour, my queen. Is it swift, at least?"

"Stop it, Jaffar. You are cruel."

"Do you not remember the old quatrain? _'It's from the rose the nightingale first learns cruelty of.'_ "

And that, the poem Ahmad could never understand, makes all of it come crashing down on her. She's travelled all this way, left behind her home and her reputation, and while she had known he might sneer at her, his rejection still feels like a knife in her already wounded heart. She is trying to be kind, trying so very hard to be more than the vain and stupid child she used to be, yet he is accusing her of deliberate malice.

She gets up, furious, tears of frustration escaping her eyes. "Jaffar, if you knew, if you only _knew_ everything I've had to give up to bring you this--" she trails off, sobbing into her hands. She has already said too much, and wishes she could skip back five seconds to unsay it, but it's too late. 

Jaffar's eyes are wide with surprise and shock. "What are you trying to say?"

"I said nothing. Forget it."

He gives her a long glance and weighs the pouch of medicine in his hand. "Will you be coming back tomorrow?"

She turns away, hugging her arms. "So you can mock me some more?"

His voice is softer, now. "Because misery loves company. Perhaps we could be miserable together."

Maybe she imagines it, but she thinks she spies true loneliness in his voice, that loneliness she had fancied mirrored hers. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, at the man who had once ruled all of Persia, now emaciated and his kingdom but a bed; a mere ruin of a man sinking beneath a sea of frayed silk. And despite her anger and her sadness, she feels a flash of pity in her heart. She pulls the veil over her hair again.

"Tomorrow, then."

It's not as if there is anything else left for her to do, now.

***

The weeks pass, and on Jaffar's invitation, she decides to stay in his house, moving to a small room in one of the towers, bringing her staff with her. Even if Jaffar is bedridden, this but fans the rumours all the more: all of it was true, they say. She is his lover, and always has been. Look at the way she tends to him every day, feeding him from her own hands, taking over his household like she was the mistress of the house, mixing his medicines herself in the kitchens.

Yet they couldn't be more wrong. She is making work for herself to hide from her own sadness, and tending to Jaffar is her penance, her new vocation. Thus, by day, she throws herself into physical work like a maidservant, helps with cooking and carrying and scrubbing around the house until her hands lose their softness, until the pain in her back and her limbs is severe enough to dull the pain in her heart. Every night, she climbs the stairs into her room and falls into bed exhausted, wrung dry. Even then, she cannot escape all her nightmares, a thousand voices mocking her and telling her that this is a poor substitute for a soul life, a poor substitute for what she truly yearns for; that her life is as empty and as loveless as it was before.

Her meetings with Jaffar are everything but the romantic trysts the staff imagine them to be, as they consist of little more than nursing. She spoon-feeds him fortifying stews, clarified butter and healing herbs, mixing a little theriac into each meal. However, even if he might be gaining in strength--and she thinks he might be--he isn't wasting any of it on kindness. At best, he is coolly polite to her; on most days, acerbic.

"You are certainly not lacking in maternal instincts," he quips as she wipes his mouth after a meal. "How many children did you gift Ahmad with?"

She busies herself by clearing out the cups and bowls from the bed. "None."

He props himself up on his elbows, smiling at her, as if he knows something she doesn't. "Through inability to conceive or through a lack of love?"

She glares at him. "A little of both. And you are quite mistaken. I have no maternal instincts to speak of." It is a terrible thing for a woman to admit, being against God and nature, but his probing is making her uncomfortable. She would rather seem cold and unnatural in his eyes if it got him to stop.

He brushes her hand with his fingertips, gazing at her with a genuine fascination. "And yet you have a heart. It is the mind of a dervish you have, or that of a scientist, always meditating, always calculating. It is quite curious. This menial work doesn't suit you; your mind is always elsewhere, fixed on some loftier point. Your hands may be tending to a sick man, you might be sweeping the floors, but your thoughts--"

She is not sure if he is complimenting her or if, in some back-handed way, he is calling her absent-minded. Whatever his intent, it is too close to the truth. "That's enough, Jaffar."

He leans back against the pillows, speaking more softly, now, with warmth in his eyes. "Tell me I'm wrong." He tightens his fingers around her hand, not cruelly, but firmly. "It is only the dull-witted person who is never melancholy, because the dull-witted never desire more than what they have. It's the wise who are always yearning for something more, and are doomed to melancholy when those yearnings are thwarted. For some, it is a yearning to reach the stars, for some it is a yearning for God, for some it is to put to verse the songs of their heart."

"And for some, it is a yearning for bloodshed and power." She gets up, gathering the dishes on a tray.

"You wound me. Yet, it is no matter." He smiles and refuses to let go of her hand. "I would still wish to know what it is that you yearn for, for it is not the life of a nurse or a dervish. There has to be something else."

She casts her eyes down and pulls her hand free. "I've given up on yearning, for it is of no use. There's but work, now." When she says it with such conviction, she almost believes it herself. Maybe if she repeats this thought every day like a prayer, it will one day come true.

"Then, I see there is nothing left for me but to indulge you and give you work," he replies, not believing a word of what she's said. "I think I could manage a little reading tonight. There's a small library at the end of the south wing; bring me the three books that please you the most. Then, perhaps, we could read them together."

Her heart skips a beat. There's a library? She hasn't opened a book in months. And yet she feels as if she is a maiden being tempted by a sadistic lord in a gruesome fairytale, tempted with a key to a locked room beyond which lies a torture chamber. Wounded animal though he may be, she is still not sure whether it would not be exactly like Jaffar to trick her so.

"Any three books I wish?"

"Any three books you wish."

***

There are no implements of torture in the library, although some of the volumes could serve as such because of their beauty and because they contain things she has now left behind. She's given up on knowledge, given up on thoughts of stars and souls and love, and to be tempted with books describing these very things is maddening. For Jaffar's library may be small, but it is nevertheless the library of a well-educated man, encompassing numerous topics, whole worlds within its few shelves. Jaffar was the man who had built the vast libraries Baghdad is now famous for, yet he had only been allowed to bring so many books with himself to Samarkand. 

It breaks her heart to even think of it, a man's life's work taken from him, with only scraps left for him to feed his soul on, all enclosed in this one single room. But by the looks of it, he seems to have succeeded in rescuing the very best volumes, especially on his favourite subjects: the engineering of fantastical machines, the arcane arts of magic and of course, poetry.

And it is a volume of poetry she is compelled to pick up and bring to Jaffar that night, along with a book on philosophy and another on animals. Jaffar is sitting up tonight; he's even arranged his pillows that way himself by the looks of it, and bows his head a little when he accepts and sips the medicinal tea she's brought him.

"My lady." There's more colour in his cheeks, and his eyes seem a little brighter, a little bluer in the light of the setting sun. There's genuine mirth in his smile, and she cannot help but smile back. She lays the back of her hand on his forehead, and it is as she'd suspected: his fever has indeed gone down.

"Merciful Lord!" she exclaims, a little more excitedly than she means to, but she doesn't care. She kneels beside the bed, clasps his hand in both of hers and kisses it. "That is wonderful."

He, in turn, lifts her hands to his own lips. "The Lord is merciful indeed," he murmurs, his beard scratching her fingers. "But let us not celebrate just yet. I am still far from a well man."

"Of course."

"Now, show me the books." He pauses for a second, then pats the bed next to himself, grinning. "Here, come sit next to me." His grin widens as he sees her hesitate. "So we can read together. I won't bite."

Very well. If he thinks he can unsettle her, she will not give him the satisfaction. Her face a calm mask, her heart pounding in her throat, she climbs in next to him. Rumours notwithstanding, this is as close to him as she has ever been during her time here, his washing and dressing having been left to his servants. As she settles in with the books in her lap, she can feel the heat of his body through his robe, his bones hard against the softness of her own flesh. _Calm down,_ she tells her heart. Even if he wanted to _bite_ her, he would still be too weak to do anything of the sort.

And without bites, without malice, they sit together and enjoy each other's company long into the night. She lights lanterns so they can keep flicking through the books, not truly reading them but pausing here and there to study a passage, to admire an illustration, to discuss the layers of a poem in detail. It is the strangest thing to have him initiate an intellectual discussion with her, for no one ever has; it isn't the sort of thing expected of princesses. She finds words tumbling out of her mouth in torrents, her lips presenting arguments perfected during repeated, long discussions she has had in her mind with imaginary fellow scholars. And now, finally, someone answers the questions she has always longed to ask, then asks her new ones she has always wanted to answer, and it is as if long-dormant parts of her brain spark into life and she's dizzy with it all. Her mind is suddenly busy and alive, humming, buzzing like a hive full of bees, and she's trembling with the nervous excitement of the newly born. She sips her tea to make sure she hasn't fallen asleep and isn't dreaming this: in this strange house, in this strange half-light, a strange new Jaffar is suddenly discussing Aristotle with her.

But it is real. Her tea goes cold in her hands as she sits and listens to him, his speculations on where Time and Matter divide from one another and how to find the gaps between the two in order to manipulate both, in order to reshape reality. To work magic. He seems hesitant, more wary as he tries to explain the concepts, as if he is expecting her not to understand. But she's seen his magic, seen it's different from the cheap tricks of fakirs, and knows it to be a science among others. Hungry for knowledge of a matter so well-guarded, she bombards him with questions, and he responds eagerly. Animated, his eyes sparkling in the lamplight, he describes various magical techniques to achieve different types of results.

The real alchemy, however, is in watching him come alive; to watch the corners of his eyes crinkle in joy as he realises she's understood something, that he has connected with her. She does not know what he sees in her face in turn, but she realises she is smiling, laughing, feeling something she hasn't felt in months, probably years. Her face hurts from smiling and her heart feels light, and she realises she is _happy._

She gazes into her tea glass, shivering a little at the realisation. To forget what happiness feels like, to not even remember how to laugh seems like the most terrible sin against life itself, and the guilt she feels threatens to open the floodgates of melancholy again. It is a strange paradox--to feel joy and then feel crushingly guilty because one rarely feels joy, for joy to only remind one of how much misery one is surrounded by. She keeps staring into her glass, and Jaffar stops talking, realising she isn't listening.

"Am I boring you?" he sounds slightly hurt, and in his tone she can hear he is accustomed to this; to people closing their minds and ears once the topic shifts into something beyond everyday subjects. It is something she has experienced many times, and cannot blame him.

"No. Not at all." She looks up at him. "Tell me something, Jaffar. If you knew these techniques, why did you not heal yourself?"

He closes the book he is holding, idly tracing the gold patterning on its cover. "The illness overcame me too fast. One needs self-control for the rituals to work, and above all, stamina. One can never work magic without using up one's own life force." Ruefully, he glances at her. "And I had very little left."

And at that, she feels even guiltier, for keeping him up like this, well into the night. She sets her tea on the floor. "It's late. I should let you rest."

"No." He clasps her shoulder. "Stay. Please. There's one more book left." And at that, he suddenly lets go, seemingly embarrassed at the intensity of his own plea. Before she can think of anything to say, he picks up the last book, the largest of the volumes, and lays it open across his lap.

"Here. I couldn't let you go to bed without showing you this; the bestiary. I bought it in Baghdad when I was a young man, and it was ancient even then." Carefully, he turns the pages until he finds what he is looking for: an illustration of a fantastical, brightly coloured bird. Tenderly, he runs his fingers across its luminous wings, across its glittering, trailing tail feathers. "Observe the pigments they used; how they have not faded over the decades--who knows, centuries. Still as blue as the day it was painted."

"The Simurgh." She traces its gently smiling beak with her fingertips. The bird of eternity, of new beginnings, of healing. _"She who lives at the top of the world tree, she who showers the earth with all the seeds of God's healing herbs, she who brings rebirth,"_ she reads. "I used to love the idea of her when I was a child; the bird that healed every wound. If I ever got hurt running around in the garden, I would sit there and wish and wish I had one of her feathers, so I could call to her and she would come to my aid."

Jaffar's fingers meet hers over the bird's heart.

"I, too, called to her." His eyes are wide, shining with unshed tears as he smiles and laces his fingers with hers. "And she came," he whispers.

He leans in to kiss her, but she pushes him away.

"Jaffar. No."

He stops breathing, his chest still underneath her hand. It is quiet, deathly quiet as his smile fades, as the light in his eyes dies, as his heart breaks.

"I am so sorry, Jaffar," she whispers, full of shame, full of regret. "So sorry." 

She tears herself away, runs out of the door and does not look back.

***

She sits in her room, surrounded by her belongings, by half-packed bags. She hasn't slept, and the morning light stings her eyes, swollen and red from tears. She folds the same shirt over and over, but what's the use in packing? She has nowhere to go, now. And she has been stupid, so stupid. The money Ahmad gave her would last her some months if she rented a small room somewhere and dismissed her servants, and then--it doesn't bear thinking about. Maybe if she went back and threw herself at Ahmad's feet, he would take her back. At least she would have a roof over her head.

But then there would be the shame. Shame for adultery she did not commit, following her for the rest of her life, and she could not bear it, the glances and the whispers, the scorn of all of Baghdad from Ahmad to the lowliest slaves. Execution would be more merciful. For a delirious moment, she imagines herself being stoned, her bones being broken one by one by sharp, merciless rocks, imagines herself slouching to the ground and slowly, blissfully bleeding to death. And yes, right now, she realises with a frightening, knife-sharp clarity, death would be preferable to the pain of living.

She makes her way to her window and looks down, out into the garden. Her room is on the highest floor of the palace, and she wonders if it's high enough. She should be afraid, should be dizzy as she usually is when looking out from this window, yet right now, she is everything but. She hasn't been this calm in months as she steps up onto the windowsill and looks down, at the welcoming green grass, at the white spring flowers. A fine bed they would make for her, she thinks, and catches herself laughing, a sharp, broken laugh, startling the birds outside. She spreads her arms and closes her eyes, and takes a step forwards into the air.

There's a ripping sound as the silk on her jacket tears, as Jaffar's hands grab and pull at her, dragging her back inside. "You fool!" He wrestles her onto the bed, pinning her arms down. "Don't you ever, _ever_ dare do that again!" He stares into her eyes, panting in shock, in terror, in anger. "I've already saved you from yourself once! I'm warning you now: one day, I might not be there to catch you."

She is furious. "What makes you think you have the right to decide for me? You don't own me."

He lets go of her and steps back from the bed. "Yes. You have made that abundantly clear," he hisses and leans back against the wall, shaking from exertion. "Imagine how it feels for a man to watch a woman try to kill herself _twice_ because she finds him so loathsome."

She cannot find an answer. And it is only in the tense silence that she realises he looks different: he is now dressed in his full robes and a turban, and has had his beard shaved, only his old thin moustache framing his still-pale lips. He hasn't walked in months, yet the moment he could, he had been on his way up to her room. Despite her rejection of him last night, he had still sought out her company; had still, perhaps, had some hope of reconciliation. But whatever he has gained in health, he seems to be losing now: he slouches forwards and kneels on the bed, balancing himself on his arms, groaning in pain.

Despite herself, she reaches out to him, pulls him to lie beside her. "Lie down."

"I wonder--" he groans again, panting as he eases himself down on the bed, his eyes burning with bitterness. "I wonder if my dying would make you happy. Is that it? If I died, would that stop you from killing yourself? Because I cannot think of anything else I could give you."

"Hush, Jaffar."

"Don't hush me. There is only one foolish child in this room, and it is not me."

"We're both fools." She offers him a pillow, and he rests his head on it, searching her eyes with his.

"I don't understand it." His voice is quiet, incomprehending. "What are you after? Why did you come here?"

"To escape." She might as well tell him, now. She reaches into a satchel and pulls out the letter that arrived but a few days ago. "Read this."

He glances at the sheaf of papers, then back at her. "Upon the divorce of Ahmad ibn Akbar--on grounds of adultery--" his eyes widen. "Is this some mischief, woman? Are you trying to trick me?"

"Observe the caliphal seal." She knows Jaffar himself used to wield that same seal once, and would recognise a forgery anywhere.

He reads the last part of the page over and over. "We hereby declare 'I divorce thee' to our wife for the third time and let her go in peace, and wish her all of God's blessings in her future union with her chosen one, _Jaffar ibn Yahya al-Barmaki of Baghdad_."

Stunned, he lets the letter drop from his hand. "Well."

She plucks at her torn jacket with her fingernails, not looking up at him. "So, as you see, now all of Baghdad thinks I'm a fallen woman, and that it is you my heart belongs to."

His voice is cold. "You used me."

She does not answer.

He leans over her, furious. "You _used_ me. Because you knew I had once desired you, because all of Baghdad knew I had once desired you. I _loved you_ ," he spits, "and to you, I was but a convenient excuse." Shaking with fatigue and anger, he wraps his hand around the hilt of his dagger. "Oh, I should have pushed you out of that window myself, and followed suit."

She looks at him, hot tears escaping her eyes. "Go ahead. I don't care any longer."

He cups her face in his hands, wiping at a tear with his thumb. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it would be too merciful. There was a day upon which I, too, wanted to die. I had lost everything; the kingdom I had conquered, the woman I loved. I'm sure you remember that day as well as I do. Ahmad was about to send me to the block, yet you pleaded for my life. You refused me death, even if I would have welcomed it, and had me locked up in this gilded cage instead. And now, I am doing the same to you, if only to save you from your death wish." He presses into her cheeks with his thumbnails and narrows his eyes. "You are not to leave this house, even if I have to keep you prisoner."

She shakes herself free from his grip. He thinks he can intimidate her? "Jaffar. I, too, was imprisoned on that day, and know all about gilded cages." She laughs, bitterly, on the edge of hysteria. "Like any woman does, being but a man's possession. It would not make any difference whether I was a prisoner here or in Baghdad. It would make no difference whatsoever." And saying it out loud makes her finally break down and sob into her hands, hopeless. She doesn't care how ridiculous she looks; she is tired of it all, tired of struggling, tired of living. Thus, she weeps and weeps with the full force of her pain, loudly, messily and does not resist as Jaffar gathers her against his chest and strokes her back.

"I apologise. I would not wish you dead, or imprisoned, but to keep you safe from yourself. If I could, I would give you all the freedom in the world, if it would only make you happy." His voice is choked with tears as he kisses her hair, rocks her against himself in time with her sobs. "Promise me you will not kill yourself. Please."

She grinds her forehead against his shoulder, sniffling, groaning in frustration. "Why shouldn't I?"

He cups her face in his hands. "Because I have never met a woman with an intelligence like yours, one that could change the world." He frowns, genuinely puzzled, heartbroken. "How could you be so blind to your own potential? I am serious. Did no one ever tell you you are brilliant?"

She shakes her head. "They asked what names I would give to the sons I would bear. Besides, Jaffar, you are infatuated with me. You would see me as something greater than I am."

"It is not my infatuation that speaks. I first fell in love with your beauty, wanted to capture the unattainable princess, that much is true. But last night--" He caresses her hair, feverish, running his eyes over her face, marvelling at her, smiling through his tears. "Last night, it was as if I saw you for the first time. I saw someone who understood the language I spoke in, someone with a deep sense of intuition lacking in most human beings." His voice drops to a whisper, such a fragile sound for a grown man. "I wanted to _work magic with you_. Never in my life have I wanted to share my practices with anyone. And yet I sat there, listening to you, and thought 'What a fool I've been, to have thought I knew so much, when this woman could teach me more than my books ever could.'"

"Jaffar, you speak in riddles. I am no magician."

"But you could be, and one of the greatest, a scholar and a shaper of the world. Remember what I said about you having the mind of a scientist, the mind of a dervish? And about the melancholy of the wise? Those are not the qualities of an ordinary person, but of someone extraordinary."

She casts her eyes down. "Jaffar, I am ill. Just as you have been, except in my mind. What good would one's skills be if one had lost the life force needed to use them, the very will to live?"

He kisses her hands. "Then let me give you something to live for," he pleads. "I am in your debt. At least let me try."

She looks at him for a long while, so thin and gaunt and full of pain, still, his body heaving as he excuses himself and wipes his tears on his sleeve. And just like last night, she is crushed with shame, loathing herself more than she has ever loathed him--because of the pain she has given him. Right now, she would not put it past him to poison himself just to give her the chance to nurse him back to health again, to give her something to do instead of killing herself. She holds his life in her hands, she holds his heart, and she feels like such a foolish, selfish child for not understanding what she has been given.

She had come here to seek absolution, to seek salvation through charity, to offer him the respect she had denied him before. And the first night he had shown signs of healing, at the first sign of her project nearing its completion, she had collapsed into selfish misery again. He is right; she has used him, but without knowing it, used him as a salve for her own pain, ignoring him as a human being, ignoring what he has offered her. And she knows what he is offering her now, knows what he is trying to say. If she is to live, Jaffar is the only man who can restore her honour, or at least salvage what's left of it.

He lies down before her and waits; even in his pain he is patient for her. As she listens to his shallow breathing, she is astonished to realise she cares for his life more than she cares for her own, and in a strange way, it might be just the thing to keep her living--not for her sake, but for his. So she lies down with him and takes his hand.

"There's something I need to tell you."

"I am listening."

"Last night, when I ran away from you, it was not because I loathed you."

He squeezes her hand. "Why, then? To spite me?"

"Because I did not know what I felt. I'm lost, Jaffar, and I need to find myself again, need to know who I truly am and what it is that I truly want in my heart. Will you forgive me?"

He frowns, and she knows what he is thinking: _Even if I did, even if I helped you heal, what good would it do me?_ He expects to be rejected again, expects not to be what she wants in the end, expects her to leave him alone with the books he thought they'd read together. He said he had felt a connection last night, a flash of hope, and is now expecting her to grind that hope under her heel again.

"What choice do I have?" he asks, very quietly.

And she cannot bear it. With the same certainty with which she had stepped on the window ledge, she makes her decision.

"Call a judge, and have him draw up the marriage contract."

***

He doesn't tell her how to spend her days, only asks two things of her: that she does not try to kill herself again, and that no matter what happens, they will always go to sleep together.

She does not find those promises easy to keep, but she was not expecting healing to be easy in the first place. There are nights when oblivion still calls to her, and on those nights Jaffar has to hold her tight, to make a circle of his arms for her to weep in, to take in her pain, let her tears soak his chest. 

And not once does he molest her, refrains from approaching her the way a husband would, even if she now shares his bed. There are nights, hot and humid, when they lie spooned together and she feels him stir against her buttocks, against her back, but he never acts upon his body's urges. 

And for this, she is grateful. Yet on some nights, her gratitude flips over into pain, into a cascade of guilt over her being so broken and such a failure as a wife to yet another husband, no matter how much he tries to reassure her otherwise.

Sometimes, it's his patience that's the most infuriating thing of all. The more he heals, the more he gains in physical strength, the more it reminds her of her own weakness, makes her feel like she is lagging behind. 

He reminds her of how this, too, is a symptom of melancholy, as he offers her a cup of herbal tea meant to soothe the nerves, to balance the humours. She explodes at him, knocks the cup onto the floor and tells him not to be so condescending.

And no matter how many times she yells at him, no matter how many cups she breaks, he waits. Never does he tell her that he hates her, never does he tell her to leave, although even his patience does crack sometimes. On those days, he slams the door in her face and goes out riding all day, exhausts himself with long hunts until he returns home staggering, his boots and his gloves covered in mud and blood, some of it his. And he captures her in the tightest of embraces, whispering apologies, and she embraces him back, cheek against his bloodied cheek.

Little by little, her world expands and she does not even know it, for it happens in such a subtle manner--through small, everyday things. And Jaffar does his best to please her, gladly spending whatever fortune he has left on making her happy: he buys her new books, brings in workers to clean the fountains and to repaint the palace walls, gives her a horse of her own so they can go out riding together. Of course--and she scolds herself for thinking this--she feels guilty for it, because she doesn't feel she deserves it. 

Yet Jaffar's gifts aren't those of Ahmad's: Ahmad would buy her pretty trinkets and feed her sweet cakes and give her the sorts of things he thought all women wanted. Just like her father, who had thought gilded swings and pink elephants and toys were things that would keep every little princess happy. 

Yet Jaffar doesn't think of her as a princess, not any longer, and it never ceases to astonish her. He doesn't assume, he _listens._ Every night, he listens to her as they sit with open books, not to a princess or to a woman but to a human being. And she finds it strange, because she has been a princess for so long and does not know how to be a human being, even when a human being is what she's been yearning to be all her life. The night she realises this, she is shaken by it, and she has to tell him.

He kisses her hand. "It is a good sign." He flicks through the book of poetry they've been browsing, until he pauses on a well-thumbed page.

_"Don't be afraid of the pain of rebirth: the seed must burst open before the plant can reach up towards the sunlight."_

"That's what the poet thinks," she says, warily. "What do you think?"

"Will you promise not to throw crockery at me?"

She rolls her eyes and laughs. "I promise."

"Six months ago, you told me you needed to learn what you truly wanted in your heart. I think you have always known, but the melancholy has clouded your sight. Sometimes, from the corner of my eye, I catch you laughing, and then I see you lower your head, as if in shame."

And there it comes again, the guilt--for feeling guilty, of all things. She is upset, but she knows Jaffar is right, so very right. Whenever she catches herself feeling happy, she always feels sorry for herself, scolding herself for ever forgetting to be grateful for what she has, for not being able to enjoy the present moment more often. Despite her books, despite the freedom she enjoys here, despite Jaffar treating her well, she is still trapped, and by her own mind. There's still enough sorrow and self-pity in her to cast a shadow over everything she thinks and does, so that she does not even realise how much she is learning, doing, experiencing every day.

"I'm sor--"

Jaffar puts a finger to her lips. "See? There you go again," he smiles, gently. "Apologising. Even when there is nobody you need to apologise to. Certainly not me."

She pushes his hand off her mouth and frowns, frustrated at herself. "It's not as if I don't want to be happy." She glances up at him. "Don't think I am not grateful, either."

"There's something a dervish once told me, a mental trick that might be of use for excess guilt."

"What's that?"

"That every time you catch yourself saying sorry for something you forgot to enjoy, you should say 'thank you' instead. Yes, I know, it sounds very pious, and something a fool who submits blindly to destiny would say. But you know from our conversations I'm more heretical than that and believe destiny is flexible, malleable, and that one should not be content being a victim. I don't believe one should be grateful for miseries, no matter how much they might shape you and teach you. But reason tells us that whenever good things happen, we should remember to be grateful--not because of false piety, but because gratitude enhances happiness. It does not serve us well to feel any guilt or sadness about the things that make us happy; it does not benefit anyone. Now, I don't know if this trick works, but it's only a suggestion. Do not take it as a command on my part."

What astonishes her the most is that normally, she _would_ throw crockery at him for telling her the obvious. She knows she shouldn't feel guilty; of course she does. But the trick sounds intriguing, even if she is slightly suspicious, because of the very reasons he had mentioned. She knows exactly what he means by pious foolishness; remembers the old women of her father's harem who would end everything they ever said with "God willing" lest they blasphemed. "I will go to the market today, God willing," or "I will now sit down and rest my old bones, God willing." And just as the old women had wanted to give up control of their lives to Providence, she knows that what she has always wanted has been to have control over her own life. And now she's had more opportunity for it than ever before, but has been hesitating. She's been offered happiness, and she has been too busy apologising to enjoy it.

It is as if something clicks together, as if pieces of a puzzle slot together, and she feels dizzy with it. She has power; he has given power into her hands, power over her own life and her happiness, and she is still fumbling with the weight of it, trying to understand what she could do with it. But for the first time, she feels as if she can do something, if she but dares defy herself.

She squeezes Jaffar's hand. "You're right. It sounds worth trying."

***

They ride home from their hunt through the valley, through the yellowing grass, the autumn sun painting everything with a soft, golden light. The most golden of all are their horses, the resilient and beautiful breed the local Turks take so much pride in raising. She enjoys the soft rocking gait of her steed underneath her, the evening sun upon her face, and in that moment, she feels content. They did not catch anything that day, or, to be more precise, their falcon didn't, but she does not care, even if Jaffar had grumbled a little. It's been a good day.

A good day. She turns the thought over in her mind and finds it fascinating, thrilling, the thought immediately followed by a stab of fear as she worries what might happen next. It's as if even acknowledging happiness means tempting fate, and she knows exactly how ridiculous a superstition that is.

There. She has caught herself worrying, and remembers she has a choice. She can either follow the path of worry and slide down it into misery, or she can stay in the present moment and allow herself to enjoy it. Right now, it is she who has the power to choose whether to be happy or to be miserable. 

She takes a deep breath and lets the present moment flow in, focuses on what made her think this was a good day to begin with. She takes in the golden light of the evening, the fields of undulating grass, the rich scent of the autumn air. Yet it takes effort to banish the melancholy, so she focuses more intensely, focuses on the minutest details of her surroundings: she tightens her hands around the reins, feels the leather of her gloves against her palms. She fixes her gaze on the individual hairs on her horse's mane, the way they seem to glow with light, the deep green of her cloak, the deep blue of Jaffar's. She runs through lists of different dyes in her mind, of different plants and minerals, the combinations needed to produce the specific colours on the individual fabrics, and that helps. Saturated with the sights, colours and scents of the present, drunk with them, she smiles and relaxes in her saddle again. She lets the evening take its course, lets her horse walk at its own pace, lets the grass swirl around them.

"Stop." Jaffar reins in his horse.

"What is it?"

"Shirin hasn't joined us yet. She should've returned by now." He fiddles nervously with his reins, handing her the falcon's hood.

"Maybe she finally found a rabbit."

"Maybe." He whistles rhythmically and waits, to no avail.

"Should we go back for her?" The sun is setting, however, and if they tarry, they might not make it back before nightfall.

"Wait." He reaches into his saddlebag and takes out a small, funnel-shaped drum, something the likes of which she has never seen before. Cradling it in his lap, he plays it with his fingertips, drumming out a soft, low beat. He plays for long moments, a steady rhythm to lure the falcon back, but it is Yassamin who is entranced, so open in her present state it's as if she were the bird listening for the call. Mesmerised, she watches as Jaffar's long fingers dance over the drum, pulling sounds from the membrane, making it vibrate under his touch. _Return, return,_ the drumbeat pleads, cajoles, demands. _Return, return,_ and she sways in her saddle, pulled towards the rhythm, her heart thrumming faster, faster, as if trying to catch up with the drumbeat and join it.

She hears Shirin calling from beyond the hill, and yet Jaffar drums, drums, winds the falcon back upon the rolling spool of his drumming, the muscles of his arm shifting underneath the blue velvet of his sleeve, and yet he drums.

_Like the king's white falcon, fly to your master's hand when you hear the sound of his drum._

He stops, his hand raised high, and Shirin alights upon his wrist, calling to him in greeting. He greets Shirin back, smiling, cooing gentle words to her, then turns around. Golden, he is framed by the setting sun, Shirin's feathers shining as she spreads her wings, he with the most dazzling smile upon his face. Her heart lurches and she thinks she's falling, squeezing her legs around her saddle to keep herself upright, and still the words drum in her head:

_Come, come, let your soul return to the one who has always loved you._

His eyes bright as water in the evening light, he hands Shirin to her and bows. "My lady."

With a steady hand, with her heart light as air, she takes the falcon from him. _"Thank you."_

***

**Book Two**

***

Throughout the winter, Jaffar teaches her magic. At first, she is eager and curious, but her curiosity soon turns into frustration and disappointment: they never conjure any great powers or converse with djinn, but instead, he teaches her mental techniques, ritual structures and breathing exercises. Three times a week, they sit either on the rooftop or in his underground study, and three times a week, she repeats the same gestures, the same lists of elements, the same ritual prayers back at him. It's dreary; oh, Merciful God, it's dreary. 

She completes yet another breathing sequence with an exaggerated puff of protest, mumbling the sealing rune in a bored monotone.

Jaffar lifts his gaze from the book he's been reading from, snapping it shut in exasperation.

"You're slouching. You know what I have told you about posture; the spine must be erect in order to ensure a smooth flow of energy." He gets up from his cushion and puts his hands on her shoulders, yanking them back like a stern schoolmaster. "Sit up."

She grumbles and wriggles underneath his hands. "I'm cold. Can't we do this indoors?" She knows she is behaving like a petulant child, but cannot help herself. It's January and her woollen robes aren't doing much to keep out the night's chill.

With a long-suffering sigh, he squats down in front of her. "Go on. Tell me you're bored. Ask me when we are going to do some _real_ magic."

"When are we going to do some _real_ magic?"

"When you're ready. It's not worth the risk to summon anything your body and mind aren't equipped to handle. That's what the breathing and the postures are for; I've told you this." He pulls his robes tighter about himself. "Even I am not sure if I'd be healthy enough to wrangle djinn yet," he admits wryly and smirks at her. "You're bad enough."

"Can't we go downstairs at least? It's freezing." She rolls her eyes before he can answer. "Wait. Let me guess. The fresh air is healthy and strengthens the lungs."

He rubs warmth into her hands, chuckling. "You're learning. And which element are the lungs associated with?"

"Fire."

"And what's Fire's temperament?"

"Hot and dry."

"Excellent. So, you see, healthy lungs help a phlegmatic and melancholic temperament."

"Ah, but the air is _cold_ and dry, so aren't we breathing in the essence of melancholy itself?" She pulls her hands out, claps them over his and grins into his face triumphantly. "Got you."

He shakes his head. "We'll make a philosopher out of you yet. All right, we'll continue downstairs."

"With tea. Sweet tea. Lots of it." She gives an exaggerated nod. "I'm feeling a terrible bout of melancholy coming on. Galen would agree with me in that it needs to be medicated with something sweet and hot."

He puts his arm around her and laughs. "I'm feeling like I should take you over my knee and give you six of the best."

It's a joke, of course, but she still staggers a little as they make their way downstairs.

***

There are days, now, on which she breathes more easily. With the coming of spring, she walks with a lighter step, her feet less heavy over the palace floors, and she catches herself feeling not so melancholy at all. Sometimes this mood lasts for several days, and it is Jaffar who notices the change first, one night over dinner.

Her appetite has returned and where she used to live on but small portions of bread and cheese, she now enjoys hearty meals with him in the evenings: roasted fowl and wine, dried fruit and sweetmeats. Besides food and drink, they enjoy laughter, and she startles herself at how loudly she laughs at one of his jokes, a very filthy one about a bored slave girl and a donkey. 

He does not say anything, merely gazes at her for a long while, in comfortable silence. It is the strangest thing to recognise her own smile reflected in the silver of his cup, to have him return it over its brim, his eyes sparkling with gladness. And maybe it's the laughter, maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the songbirds in the garden, but she pushes the trays aside from between them, crawls across the floor and lays her head in his lap.

He stiffens in surprise and lowers his cup onto the floor with exaggerated care, spilling a few drops as he does. Her heart is pounding in her chest and drunkenly, she realises how much her jacket is gaping right now, how much of her breasts it's revealing from the way he averts his eyes. 

Slowly, he wraps his wine-stained fingers around her waist, squeezing tight, as if to keep his hand from shaking. His voice is soft, gentle, his smile warm in the lantern light as he leans down to caress her face.

"How is your melancholy?"

She leans back into his hand and closes her eyes, purring in utter relaxation. "Do you know, Jaffar, right now I can hardly feel it at all."

"There's still a little left, then?" He moves his thumb to her forehead, rubbing between her eyebrows as if to relieve a headache.

She nods. "A little."

"Then let me take it from you."

He leans down and for a second, she thinks he will kiss her. Instead, there's a sharp pain between her eyebrows, like a small burst of lightning behind her eyes, and she gasps.

"What are you doing?" she panics, but cannot seem to be able to move. All she can see are Jaffar's eyes, staring into hers, transfixing her, pinning her to his lap. "Jaffar!"

With a pained noise, he lets go, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his breathing heavy and ragged. "There."

"What did you do?" She staggers onto her knees. She's dizzy, and parts of her feel numb, hollow.

He does not look up. His voice is blank, cold, emotionless. "I took some of your pain into myself."

"You did _what?_ " 

It's unbelievable. She feels around for a familiar sadness and finds it gone, or greatly reduced at least, she is not sure. It is not an unpleasant feeling, and it's not that her memory is affected, or that she cannot feel. For she can feel horror, anger rising up in her. It's not that she had wanted to keep the pain, but that he could do such a thing, without asking her, after everything--he had meant well but _he did not ask_. 

He's violated her. Without her consent, he has just dipped into her mind and removed a part of her. Just like when he had tried to drug her, had tried to wipe her mind of all memories of Ahmad. And she had thought she could trust him. After a year together as husband and wife, he would still--now she is shaking with rage, curling her hands into fists and hissing into his face.

"What makes you think you had the right to do that?"

He does not speak, only stares at the floor, swaying a little.

"Answer me. Is the pain not mine to let go of when I'm ready?" What on earth was he thinking of? And was he even healthy enough? What if he's just wounded himself enough for the fever to return, to finish him off for good? "Why did you do it?"

He looks up at her, shivering, his eyes full of tears, his voice very small, his words tumbling out of his mouth in pained bursts. "I shouldn't have. Merciful God, I shouldn't have, to see what I've done, oh, God in all his mercy has not enough forgiveness for what I have done--" he covers his face with his hands and moans.

"Jaffar--"

"Hit me. I deserve it."

"No."

He falls down onto his hands and knees before her, groaning. "Hit me. Do it."

"No."

He grabs her shoulders, panting, his eyes burning. "Do it. I saw what you were holding in, and now _I'm_ holding it in, and I--" he reels, shaking his head, his mouth quivering. "I never knew. And I can't take it, not all at once, oh God--" He shakes with sobs. "Please. Please release it. If you have any mercy in your heart, hit me."

Recollections of their lessons flicker through her mind: of what to do in a magical emergency, the techniques required for managing a psychic overload. Sometimes, he'd said, only physical pain could release the vast amounts of energy that could build up inside the human body during certain heightened emotional states, certain rituals. He'd told her of how pain was used in certain sects for worship, how certain mendicants would use pain as a conduit to better direct their prayers to their gods. He'd told her of beds of nails, of ritual scourges, of needles thrust through tongues and cheeks in penitence and prayer. He's no heathen tribesman, no street fakir, yet he is pleading for her to hit him, with tears in his eyes.

And she cannot bring herself to do it.

She caresses his face, brushes her thumb over his tear-streaked cheek, terrified at what she is witnessing. _Is that how much I hurt?_ As she had seen her own smile reflected in his eyes, she now sees all of her pain in them, coupled with Jaffar's own, one human being ripping himself apart trying to carry the pain of two. He is shaking underneath her hand, his chest heaving with the sobs he is trying to contain in vain. He could have done this earlier, must have planned it for a while, but had had to wait until she had felt better, until the pain had receded to a level where he'd thought he could take it. And the moment he had seen her smile, the moment he had heard her laugh the way she had laughed tonight, he'd thought he could take whatever pain remained. As she had lain in his arms, he had wanted her, and had wanted her to be happy, no matter what the cost.

"Jaffar, you should not have done this," she whispers, tears spilling out of her own eyes.

He's still shaking, his voice soft, breaking in his throat. "You're right, I shouldn't have. Now I know why you can never love me." He shudders in disgust. "I saw into your memories. I saw myself as you saw me, saw the monster who so terrified you. If I had known--"

"Come, now, Jaffar."

"I felt what you felt on my ship, how frightened you were. That I would _rape you,_ " he spits. "That you would have to bear children for a man you hated with all of your being."

She clasps his shoulders. "That's in the past, Jaffar. Stop. Listen to me."

But he is frantic, wrenching himself free from her grasp. "I mean it. I deserve more than a slap. Here." He fumbles for his dagger. "Take this and strike me for every humiliation I inflicted upon you. Be avenged of me, Yassamin. For kidnapping you, for killing your father, for trying to drug you into loving me." He shouts in her face, holding the dagger out to her. "Do it!"

She picks up the dagger, throws it away with force so it clatters into the farthest corner of the room, and takes him in her arms. He cries out in rage into her shoulder, but she holds him, holds him tight and refuses to let go. She is flushed with shame, because it is her own hysteria he is now bleeding out, sobbing out in her embrace. The sins may be his own, but it it is her own shame and disgust that's now wracking his body, torturing him with a cavalcade of every wrong he has ever committed. He has not harmed a soul in years and is far from the tyrant he used to be, yet now, it's all cascading down upon him.

Gently, she undoes his turban, strokes his hair as he weeps against her chest, his fingers digging into her arms like claws. She holds him thus for long moments, rocking him in her arms, taking in his shudders of revulsion, his retching sobs. She is terrified, terrified at what he wants her to do, because the last thing she wants to do is to hurt him.

"Please. Jaffar. Is this not enough? Is it only pain that the pain can be washed away with?" she kisses his hair.

"There's nothing else I would dare ask you for," he whispers into her sleeve.

She pulls back and cups his face in her hands. "I came here to ask for _your_ forgiveness, Jaffar. Do you truly think I still hate you for what you did? Those memories are old, faded. They have little to do with what I feel today. You sought my pain, and in seeking nothing but the pain, you went past all the other emotions, all the other thoughts I hold in my mind. You know how ill moods work: they dig out the terrors of the past and drown the present underneath themselves, drown all reason, drown all that is good and worthwhile."

"I know." He wipes at his eyes, embarrassed. "Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive."

"I cannot believe that. At least let me hear the words." He searches her eyes, feverish, desperate for absolution. "Please forgive me. If not for all I've done, at least for what I did tonight."

She takes one of his hands and squeezes it with both of hers. "Will you promise to believe me, then? To remember that yesterday is forgotten and that there's only today?" She knows it will not be easy, because it is not as if she has accomplished it perfectly. But it is the promise that counts, the commitment to the present over the past.

He lets his head fall with a sigh. "I promise."

She kisses his forehead and gathers him into her arms, holding him tight, pressing his cheek against her heartbeat. "Jaffar ibn Yahya, I forgive you. For tonight and for everything you have done. And if I should lie, then let God strike me down."

She holds him for long moments until his tears dry, until his breathing evens, until he lies in her arms upon the cushions, his head pillowed upon her chest, half asleep from the fatigue of his sorrow.

"Jaffar." She strokes his hair. "There's something I want to show you."

"Yes?" His voice is distant, wary.

She takes one of his hands and lifts it to her forehead. It might be a foolish idea, a dangerous idea, but she has to do it. "Look inside."

"No. I mustn't."

He tries to pull his hand away, but she clutches at his wrist. "Please. There's something you need to see." She closes her eyes and focuses, forces her mind to open, even if she cannot force the connection herself. Jaffar hesitates, his fingers trembling on her forehead, but there, there it is: the little spark behind her eyes, and she can feel him. In the space of a few seconds, she thinks as fast as she can, in as much detail as she can, floods his mind with what she wants him to see, feel.

She shows him his true self in her eyes, shows how layer after layer, veil after veil fell and the monster was sloughed off, revealing the man underneath. In quick succession, she skips from memory to memory, from his embrace that had so frightened her on his ship to the safety of his arms around her in their bed, the embrace that had saved her from death. From the cruel old suitor, she flicks to the wounded animal who had made her heart break; she casts aside the murderous usurper and shows him the scholar whose mind never ceases to stimulate hers, reading with her long into the night. She shows him picking up pieces of broken teacups, shows him the magician on the rooftop joking together with her, his laughter a plume of frost in the winter night.

He gasps, shakes, tries to turn away but she pulls him back in, keening in her throat, blasting him with the memory of the day with the falcon. With the gold of the sunlight, she saturates him, with the gold of the horses, the brightness of his smile, the brightness of her heart torn open wide. With tears streaming down her face, sobbing against his palm, she thinks _thank you, thank you, thank you._

The brightness overwhelms her, burns itself out into darkness; her limbs fall slack onto the cushions and she can see no more.

***

It is a bright, sunny morning when she wakes up in their bed. Before she opens her eyes, she can hear spring birds singing and splashing in the fountains outside, but she cannot hear Jaffar's breathing. She feels for his side of the bed, opens her eyes and finds it empty. A sudden fear clutches at her chest, and in seconds she is wide awake. She slips on a robe and investigates the room: beside the bed, a tray of coffee, the cup still warm. In the closet, his long boots and riding whip are nowhere to be seen. Hunting, then. Yet after last night, she worries: he was so agitated she wonders if this time, a normal chase would be enough to let his fury run its course, if even wrestling a boar with his bare hands would be enough to wear out the pain that was radiating off him. 

Maybe that's exactly it: maybe he's gone off to hunt for the punishment she had refused to give him; maybe he has gone off to do something exceedingly stupid. She remembers the sentries posted on the hills surrounding the valley: Ahmad's elite soldiers, with arrows trained on Jaffar day and night, ready to shoot him on sight if he dares attempt escape.

She takes her horse and sets off to find him, rides through the entire valley, yet he cannot be found. She rides through narrow forest paths, sharp branches tearing her veil from her head, calls out his name until her throat is sore. And yet, Jaffar does not answer. 

By afternoon, she admits defeat. She returns to the house, spreading her cloak out in the garden with a good view of the front gate, praying silently for his return. She prays to God, prays to all the archangels, prays to all the djinn in heaven and on earth to return her husband to her. She will make it up to him, she will mend everything if he is but returned to her, she swears.

Saddle-sore, every muscle in her body aching, she stretches out amidst the flowers to rest awhile. As she gazes upon the white blossoms, the damp grass glistening in the sunlight, she realises, realises where she has lain her head. She looks up at the tower rising above her, looks at the white spring flowers that were to be her grave, a year ago this day, and bursts into tears. She weeps because she no longer wants to die; she weeps because she now has something--someone--to live for, and she does not know if she has lost him forever. She murmurs another prayer against her cloak, another, and falls into a dreamless sleep.

***

Something is tickling her cheek. She swats at what she thinks is an insect, and her hand brushes against hard, slender leather. She blinks her eyes open in the dusk to find Jaffar standing over her, covered in the dust and sweat and blood of the hunt, tapping his whip against her cheek. His eyes are glittering, unreadable with some emotion she cannot place, and she flinches. For a moment, she thinks he is going to hit her, punish her for what she has done as his gloved, bloodied fingers curl around the handle of his whip. He does not say a word as he leans over her, lays his weight upon her, the scent of the forest, the scent of slain animals upon him.

He sinks his hands into her hair and crushes her mouth with his.

She moans into his mouth, trembling with exhaustion, with tears, with love as she returns his kiss, and it is more perfect than any fairytale kiss could ever be.

***

She lies on her back in the steam room and brushes the last dried flecks of henna from her hands. Peacocks and flowers decorate her hands, now, elegant vines curling around her wrists, Jaffar's name woven into the intricate patterns. They are the decorations of a bride, for today, after a year from signing the marriage contract, their marriage will finally be consummated.

And it is on Jaffar's insistence. Last night, she could not stop kissing him as she had lain in his arms, could not get enough of the new pleasure they'd finally allowed each other. She had wanted him, had wanted him there and then on the grass, had wrapped her legs around his waist and devoured his mouth, writhed against him, her entire body pleading to be taken. 

He had wanted her, too, groaning into her mouth, his erection pressing hard between her legs. But he had pulled free and begged for her to stop, begged for her to wait until tomorrow. And despite the ache between her legs, despite her need, she had acquiesced.

"It is a day I have dreamt of for years," he'd said, squeezing her hand and kissing it feverishly, "and as such, it deserves to be celebrated in the proper fashion. We deserve a soft bed and I--well." He had looked down at himself and laughed. "I would rather come to you well-rested and fresh from the baths. And with a hearty breakfast inside of me."

She had stolen another kiss from him. "You'll need it. Because I'm not going to let you leave the bed for the rest of the day."

He'd narrowed his eyes and curled his hand in her hair, hissing with lust. "My lady, you are going to regret those words once I've spent _the entire day inside of you._ "

She had shaken all over at his words, at the hunger with which he'd kissed her, and has not stopped trembling with arousal since. He'd decided to sleep on the rooftop--"To protect my chastity, I'm sure you'll understand," he'd smirked--and she had tossed and turned for hours before she could get to sleep. And when she'd finally slept, she had dreamt of red sails, red sheets, his red tongue all over her skin.

And she is trembling now as she uses a sharp-edged shell to shave herself bare, scraping away the few stray hairs the servant girls had missed when they'd prepared her, trembles as she looks at her flushed vulva in a mirror. It's a long time since she'd last groomed herself, made herself beautiful at the baths: once her love for Ahmad had faded, so had her own sensuality, her enjoyment of her own body and the world of the flesh. 

And now she inhales the scent of the henna in delight, luxuriates in the softness of her skin made pliant by the oils of almonds and roses, gasps as she runs her fingers over her sex, the bareness of her skin multiplying each touch a hundredfold. She inspects herself in the mirror, the soft curve of her mound, the plumpness of the outer lips, the dark pink of her folds peeking from between them. She looks at her reflection and astonishes herself as she thinks _yes, I am beautiful_ , thinks of Jaffar looking at what she now sees in the mirror, and breathes a little faster. She spreads herself to check for any remaining hairs and she's wet, so wet and so swollen; so wet her fingers slip and she has to groan and toss the shell aside and rub at herself.

She is alone in the steam room, but the servant girls still await outside. She has to bite her lip in order not to moan too loudly, has to be quick: she turns over onto her stomach and rides her hands, grinding her face into the marble bench, whimpering quietly as she comes. It is the first orgasm she has had in years, and she shakes with its power, her oiled thighs slipping on the warm marble, and in her mind, all she can see is Jaffar's wicked grin. She whimpers again, her teeth scraping against the stone as she quivers in release, and she knows this is nothing, nothing compared to what awaits her in the bedroom.

With shaking limbs, she picks herself up and knows what she will be wearing.

***

She had found it months ago when clearing out the basement. It was tucked away in a sturdy chest, the thin and fragile fabric neatly folded, protected from moths with pouches of lavender and camphor. It is the wedding dress Jaffar had given to her on his ship: layers and layers of pink silk upon silk, circled with gold. It is a dress she had loathed, the way it had exposed her, the way it had clung to her, the way he had claimed her with it. She remembers the maids draping it over her, pulling the sleeves over her arms, tucking her breasts into it, and it had been as if Jaffar himself had been touching her, caressing her as the fabric had slid over her body. She remembers shivering with disgust, her eyes cast down in shock, reading over and over again the small, intricately embroidered prayer bands edging the front of the dress: _To the beloved of Jaffar ibn Yahya, the one to whom belongs his everlasting love. May God grant her eternal happiness beside him, upon this earth and in Paradise._

She had been so afraid, had felt so trapped, and she had been such a fool. With tear-filled eyes, she kisses the prayer bands and thinks of the years she'd wasted, of the love she had cast away, the words of his heart written in gold upon this very dress. She pulls on the dress, her waist now a little thicker from his tending, her breasts now so heavy they almost spill out of the neckline. Still, she manages to close the clasps that hold the dress together around her neck and underneath her breasts and looks at herself in her small mirror, blinking away her tears. She is no longer the haughty virgin Yassamin, no; it is a grown woman looking back at her from the mirror, softer, warmer. 

And even if the shadows of melancholy still flit over her and through her, she sees a glow upon her face she has not seen before: she is in love. She is in real, true adult love, for the first time in her life, and she is loved back in return. And she realises she is _happy._ She turns the thought over in her mind, and with a giddying flash of gladness, she knows it to be true: she is happy and has never been this happy in her entire life. _Eternal happiness beside him,_ she thinks, _and it starts today._

She fixes the smudged kohl in her eyes and leaves for the bridal chamber.

***

The bridal chamber is, of course, their own bedroom, only more richly decorated today. The bed is the same one they have shared for a year, only with fresh new sheets of the softest silk, the petals of spring flowers arranged upon it in auspicious patterns. It's barely midday, yet the customary pair of white wedding candles is there to welcome the couple, arranged around a tray of almonds, dried fruit and honey to sweeten their mouths for kisses to come. Jaffar still hasn't arrived, so she has time to assess where to best receive him, surprise him. And what better place than the bed, she decides: giggling in girlish delight, she stands on it the way she had done in his cabin and awaits.

When he enters and sees her for the first time, he freezes. He remains at the door for long moments, leaning back against it, pale.

"What's the matter?"

He gazes at her from head to toe, several times, taking her in. "You but... startled me, that is all."

She is nervous, worried that she has ruined the mood, now. Tentatively, she reaches out her hands. "Come here."

Still hesitant, he moves towards her, to stand before her, but dares not touch her. He keeps running his eyes up and down her body, as if to make sure she is really there. "You look beautiful," he whispers.

She cups his face with her hands and smiles. "And you wore white. Again."

"How could I not? Even if--" he casts his eyes down in embarrassment. _Even if the last time I did, you rejected me,_ his face is saying, and she wonders how many nightmares he's had of that day since, how many times his mind must have recalled her pushing him away and running away from him, trying to drown herself because she had found the very idea of his embrace so loathsome. No wonder the sight of her in the dress had shocked him; to all intents and purposes, he had seen a ghost.

"My Jaffar." Tears fill her eyes as she whispers against his lips, as she takes his hands and wraps them around her waist. "I've been such a fool. Will you still have me?"

"Of course I will," he answers, and it's his tears she tastes as she kisses him, as he moans into her mouth and pulls her tight against himself. He cups her head and drowns her in kisses he's held back for years and years, holding her so tight she cannot breathe. 

She wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes him in turn, pressing into him, as if she could sink inside of him if she but tried hard enough. "Then I shall never leave you again," she murmurs against his cheek, "never," as he leans down and kisses her breasts the way he had wanted to on his ship. "Not until the day I--oh!" 

She stumbles, laughs and he laughs back as they realise how much they are both trembling, how they've both smudged their kohl with tears, how both their chests are heaving with happiness, with relief.

"Look at us," he smiles and rests his cheek upon her breast. "A pair of fools."

She gives him an exaggerated nod. "And quivering like a pair of virgins."

He flashes her a lascivious smirk. "I don't think you're quivering nearly enough, my lady. But we'll soon fix that." He hands her one of the cups from the tray, initiating the old wedding rite: the bride and groom feeding each other honey, to sweeten their union. Mesmerised, she watches as he dips and rolls his index finger in the honey, coating it thickly, so thoroughly his ring is smeared with it. _Oh._ Her heart is pounding as he lifts his finger, slick, and holds it out to her lips. "Have a taste."

Slowly, deliberately, she opens her mouth wide, her eyes never leaving his as she closes her lips around his finger, around the heat of it, around the thick sweetness of the honey and _moans._ She slides down, down, her lips brushing against the cold silver of his ring as she sucks the honey off his finger, sucks and licks at him with intent. And now it is Jaffar who moans as she presses down with her teeth, his cry making her nipples harden against her dress. He taps and presses his finger against her tongue, each tap sending a shiver straight through her body, each tap a flash of heat between her legs. His eyes narrow in lust and he hisses, offering her the cup.

"Now, feed me."

She dips her thumb into the honey and presses it against his lips, slides it past them into the soft wetness of his mouth. He growls in his throat and bites, _bites_ , and she cries out loud onto his finger, clenching between her legs, and she can bear it no longer. Gasping, she pulls free. 

"Kiss me," she asks, clutching at his tunic, "Please, kiss me," as she pulls his turban off, pulls him down onto the bed with herself violently, so full of need she frightens herself. "Kiss me," she moans and sinks her nails into his hair, into the black and gray strands of it, demanding what is hers.

And he kisses her, kisses her with his honeyed mouth, unclasps her dress with his honeyed fingers, smears her breasts with his honeyed palms. She wraps her legs around him and takes his hands, closing them tighter around her breasts, and she's never been this loud before, has never burned like this before, has never wanted to be _taken_ like this before. 

And Jaffar knows, oh, he must know from the way he squeezes her breasts roughly, from the animal noise he makes into her mouth as he takes her with tongue and teeth. He ruts against her through her skirts, through the silk, his erection pressing hard between her legs, his breath hot against her neck.

He pauses with his hand on the drawstring of his shalwars, hesitates. Swearing under his breath, he curls over her on his hands and knees, his fingers bunching the sheets as he tries not to touch her, as he tries to contain himself. His eyes are wide, frighteningly wide, staring with the madness of lust.

"There's still a part of me that could take you by force."

"You cannot force the willing." She tugs at the drawstring and slips her hand inside, curling her hand around the heat of his cock, and oh, he feels wonderful. Wonderful, beautiful as he closes his eyes and makes the softest of noises, gazes down at her hand, at himself as he presses his forehead to hers.

"There is still a part of me that could hurt you," he whispers, pained, as if praying for her to stop. "Oh--"

"What if I wanted you to?" The words fall from her lips as if in a trance, her voice low, husky, possessed with need. "What if I wanted you to hurt me, Jaffar?" She takes one of his hands and slides it between her legs, to the wetness that awaits him there.

"Oh, then I shall hurt you," he growls, slips his fingers inside of her and curls them. " _Exquisitely._ "

"Jaffar--!"

"But not tonight. Oh, no." He rocks into her palm and kisses her tenderly. "I promised to myself that the day you would consent to be mine, I would be gentle." And it is gentleness he gives her as he moves his fingers more slowly, kissing her cheek, her neck, making love to her with his hand. "Take off your clothes," he murmurs. "Let me see you."

"But then I'd have to let go of this," she teases and squeezes him in her hand.

"Very well; I see my apprentice needs me to lead by example." He lifts himself up on his knees and pulls off his tunic.

She does nothing, only smirks at him coquettishly and lies underneath him, watching him as he undresses, running her eyes all over his body. "It is a good example."

He kicks his shalwars off and glances down at himself, smiling. "Do you think so?"

"Not bad for a man half a century old."

He frowns. "Just how many men _have_ you seen naked, young lady?"

She shakes her head as she undoes the laces of her skirts. "That makes two."

"Mm." He leans down to help her wriggle out of the dress. "And I must prove to you younger is not always better." He kisses her breasts, mouths them, sucks on her nipples greedily.

She wants to say she would prefer him in any case, but sees the challenge excites him; and if he wants to prove himself by giving her all the pleasure he's capable of giving, then who is she to complain? Instead, she sinks her fingers into his hair once more and leans back in delight as he laves and bites, squeezes her breasts with rough hands. "Oh," she laughs, "Please, don't stop," her voice louder the rougher he gets, hugging him so tight against herself he pants for breath between bites, his pupils wide as he stares up at her.

With a growl, he pulls her up to sit in his lap and takes her nipples between his fingers. "Now what was it you said about wanting it to hurt?" He pinches, _hard_ , making her gasp as she struggles for balance.

"Oh--" she clutches him with her arms around his back.

"Is that enough?" he chuckles.

Her head lolls back, her eyes wide from shock and arousal, from how good it feels. "I--Ahmad never--"

He kisses her softly and turns his pinches into caresses. "You mean he never let you find out what you liked."

She nods and closes her eyes in shame, in regret. "You could say that." Their lovemaking had been sweet at the start, that was true, but in the end, it had been very unimaginative. She had read so many manuals on the erotic arts, on how to pleasure one's lover with one's hands and lips and tongue, on a bewildering array of sexual positions, yet all her knowledge had been useless with Ahmad. He had been sweet and gentle, but whenever she had taken initiative, he had been horrified, or at least uncomfortable. She remembers lying underneath him as he'd grunted on top of her and then going to sleep unsatisfied, still wet, still burning, frustrated to the point of tears. And tears fill her eyes now as she opens them and gazes at Jaffar, suddenly unsure of what to do, what to ask for, afraid he would think her perverted or strange.

He picks up her chin with his hand, worry in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I should not have brought it up."

She shakes her head. "It was inevitable."

"Listen to me. I only want to love you the way you want to be loved." He kisses the tears from her cheeks, his voice soft and quivering with concern. "But you have to teach me. How to touch you. How to move with you. The words you want to hear when I'm inside you."

"Jaffar--" her heart is breaking at what he is offering her, her chest tight with emotion. She brings his hands to her breasts again, squeezes them. "Please." She presses her face to his neck, shaking, unable to breathe right. "Please, continue."

"Shh. Look at me. Come, look at me."

Still shaking, she looks into his eyes. They are so full of tenderness it's hard to look at him, and it's as if he himself is close to breaking as he starts to caress her once more, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Show me."

He has the same look upon his face as when he teaches her magic, teaches her the stretches and gestures that open her body for energy. She draws in a deep breath and leans into his hands as they slide over her breasts, arms, shoulders; present in her body's movements just like he always tells her to, following his touches and his gaze the way he has taught her to. He strokes, kisses, pinches her for long moments and she responds, communicating her sensations to him with her eyes, her breathing, the pressure of her fingertips over his back. Slowly, her arousal climbs higher, and she murmurs in pleasure into his mouth, kneads his shoulders, her spine dipping and sliding as she melts into his caresses.

"There. Does that feel good?"

She returns his smile. "Yes."

"Good. Now, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I would not hurt you too much. There is a difference between violence and the pain given in love-play." He brushes his lips over hers. "You know about magic syllables and runes, which words to recite during different parts of a ritual, to guide and release power safely without burning yourself out. It is the same with love-play. I want you to pick a word, a code word to tell me when I need to stop, to tell me when you have reached your limits. And another to let me know when I can keep going."

She frowns. "I should have thought 'yes' and 'no' would be enough?"

"Ah, but what if we should play out the ritual of ravishment?" he says and grins wolfishly. "I seem to recall my little princess wanted to be taken rather roughly on the grass last night. Is that not true?"

And it is true--she imagines what could have happened, and the images sear through her mind, making her flush with shame and remembered frustration. She glares at him. "I wanted you so much. Merciful God, I wanted you to rip my clothes off me," she says, the boldness of her words strange and unusual in her mouth, and she casts her eyes down in embarrassment.

"What else did you want?"

"I wanted you inside of me." She rocks in his lap, feeling his erection between her legs, feels how wet she is, how slick. "I wanted you to be merciless," she mumbles. "And I hated you for denying me. Stop grinning!"

But he doesn't; he but laughs warmly. "I'm smiling because I like what I'm hearing. Oh, yes, I _like_ it." He pinches her again and again, pulling at her breasts, now, his eyes widening in excitement at her squirming. "Tell me, what else did you desire from me? What would you have had your wicked wizard do? Hmm?"

 _I wanted your whip._ But she cannot tell him. Oh, she cannot tell him.

"Stop."

"No, no, no, my dear," he chuckles. "See, this is why we need those words. Is that a real 'stop,' or an 'I am enjoying this too much' kind of 'stop'?"

She answers him with a kiss, a hard, greedy kiss, moaning into his mouth, the moan turning into a sharp cry as he digs his nails into her breasts, and she thinks she will pass out from pleasure. This is insane, this is absolutely insane, and unlike any lovemaking she could've ever dreamt of. She does not know herself, does not know this woman who so enjoys what she is now experiencing, wet with lust, her legs spread in the lap of a monster. He is the man they'd told children horror stories of when she was young: behave yourself, don't wander off, _or Jaffar will get you_. He is the man who had devised the most exquisite of tortures for traitors, the man who knows exactly how to inflict pain, the man who could kill without batting an eyelid, the cruellest man in all of Persia.

Or so they said. And now he is offering all of it, the cruel streak they tell legends of, for her pleasure. She now knows what he had meant by purging pain, because the pain of her memories of Ahmad and the pain of her shame are both rapidly burning away, evaporating underneath his hard caresses. Intoxicated, she reels underneath his hands, underneath his loving, wicked smile, the smile of a man who knows exactly what he is doing, knows exactly how much she needs what he is giving her. 

She sits in the lap of a man who used to rule with the sword and the lash, and she knows he could truly rule her, too. But only with her permission, and that is what shakes her; that he would _ask her permission_ to give her this, that she would have control over this. She would not be a victim, no, but the one being served, Jaffar's every touch depending on her word. She shivers, looks into his eyes, and remembers this is the same man who had once asked her to take charge of him, to command him. And now, he is laying himself at her feet like a hunting cheetah, asking her to be the one holding his collar, his leash. Maybe this is what he truly needs, too, and she thinks she spies a craving for it in his eyes, in the worship of his hands.

Again, he turns his caresses into gentle strokes, massaging her breasts. "Do you want me to pick out the words for you?"

"No; I've chosen." She brushes her lips against his, purring with pleasure.

"Tell me. What will you use for 'stop?'"

"'Dove.'"

"Interesting choice. Peaceful, chaste. I like the sound of it. And for when you want me to--oh--" he gasps, his eyes flying wide with surprise as she lifts her hips and guides his cock to her entrance. _"Continue._ Please."

"'Falcon.'" She laughs softly and slides down, down, rocking herself onto him.

"Oh--" He lets go of her breasts and wraps his arms around her, trembling with emotion as he is enveloped by her, clasping her tight against himself. "I love you," he whispers into her shoulder, so very quietly, "I love you."

"And I love you, too. So much," she smiles, blinking away tears. "Now, Jaffar, I have only one thing to ask of you."

"Ask, my lady, and it's yours."

She pulls him down onto the sheets and wraps her limbs around him. "You promised me pain, and you gave it. But you also promised me gentleness, did you not?"

"That, I did." He smirks and kisses her nose.

"Then, make love to me."

"Your wish is my command."

He moves to lie on top of her, filling her so completely she cannot bear it, her tears now running hot down her temples. "Don't stop," she breathes onto his skin, "don't stop," and she digs her nails into his back, not sure if she can ever let go of him again. 

With a fierce tenderness, he gathers her to himself, shelters her as she cries out all her exhaustion, all her tension, all her wasted years in his arms. And never does he stop moving inside of her, kissing her, stroking her hair, murmuring words of love onto her lips as she falls apart in his embrace. 

And it is in his embrace that she is put back together again, made whole again, he the last missing part of the puzzle her life has been. He feels perfect as he moves inside of her, perfect like he was made to fit against her: the bones of his hips cradled between her thighs, the hard, lean length of him nestled into her softness.

She cannot stop weeping, half in shame, half in joy. "I should've let you do this years ago, should've let you do this on your ship, oh--"

He holds her down to soothe her, covering her face with kisses. "Shh. My love, I waited for a lifetime. What's a few years? I've finally found you."

She laughs into his mouth, her heart light, aching with love for him. "I am glad to have been found."

"Besides," he laughs and rolls his hips slowly, sweetly, "I am doing it right now, aren't I? Taking my little princess, like I would have taken her in my cabin." 

He turns his strokes deeper, longer, harder, her tears drying on her cheeks as she shakes, shouting underneath his thrusts. "Please," she begs, locking her ankles behind his back, losing all sense, rocking back feverishly onto his cock. The manuals told her it's unfitting for a princess to use foul language, to swear like a prostitute, but the need in her overcomes all shame. Never in her life has she uttered the words, but now-- _"Fuck me,"_ she cries into his ear. "Fuck me," she cries out again, the fallen, sinful adulteress she is.

And it is at her words that he snaps and lets go, lets his hips sink into a deep slide as he takes her, fucks her so hard the pillows are pushed off the bed. The pleasure blinds her and in that moment, all grief is undone, years of pain are unmade and they have always been lovers, just like they always should have been, and there has never been anyone, anything else. She twists and writhes underneath him and slips her hand between her legs, so far gone but a few strokes are enough to bring her to the edge.

He notices this, slows down, cups her cheeks with his hands and stares into her eyes.

"Let go. Let me see you."

She is shaking too much to answer him in words, but keeps rubbing at herself, her stomach spasming, sobbing underneath his smile as she comes undone. He rocks into her slowly, slowly, all through her orgasm, guiding the pace of it, the depth of every ripple with his movements inside of her, unflinching as she shouts her release in his face. 

"Oh, God," she cries in disbelief against his chuckling mouth, thinking the ripples will never stop as he keeps on kissing her, keeps on moving into her. Her knuckles grinding into his stomach, she cries out once more, cries out _"Jaffar!"_ as she quivers her last and grows slack underneath him.

He purrs in delight and leans down to kiss her. "Now, _that_ was beautiful."

"Was that a compliment or a boast?" she gasps, trying to remember how to breathe again.

"A little bit of both." He keeps on moving inside of her, very slowly.

"Go on, then. Your turn."

"What's the hurry?" He closes his eyes and rocks himself deep inside of her, sighing happily. "You feel wonderful."

"As do you." She closes her eyes in turn, luxuriating in his movements inside of her, the hard wet slide of him, the heat of him, the friction of him. "So wonderful. Oh, I would not protest if you kept on going forever."

He laughs, a little nervously. "I might have to build you a clockwork Jaffar to do _that._ "

"There's a thought." She grins and pushes her hips up, squeezing around his cock in a tease.

He groans and pushes in harder. "My God, I should." He kisses her hungrily, leering at her. "Then both of us could take you at once."

"Oh--tell me more." She rocks back onto him, greedy for details of such a filthy vision. "Tell me."

"Oh, I would have him take you like this." He speeds up his thrusts, lifting her hips off the bed, snarling into her cheek. " _Fuck_ you like this. So hard your head and shoulders would loll off the bed and you would be hanging on for dear life."

"Would you, now?" She rubs at herself again, hisses up at him, her eyes narrowed, urging him on. "Would you watch me? Watch him do this to me?" she moans, staining the sheets, so slippery around him, so soft and hot and wet from him, from his fantasy. To be spread open like this, helplessly pinned underneath a Jaffar made of silver, pounded into by a machine, Jaffar himself watching, smiling, prick in hand, oh--

"Yes," he growls, biting into her shoulder, her breasts, making her shout as he covers her in red marks. "And then I would kneel beside the bed and slide my cock into your _mouth_." It is he who shouts now, slamming hard inside of her, his eyes and mouth wide open.

"Then, by God, take it!" She crawls back on the sheets, leaving him whimpering as she slides off him. "Take my mouth," she tells him as she moves to lie down at the foot of the bed. She doesn't have to ask him a third time, and rubs at herself feverishly as she watches him move off the bed. He staggers with desire, his wet cock slapping against his stomach, his eyes wide with awe that she should offer him this.

"Ahmad never did," she explains in her heat, as she closes her hand around his cock and puts her lips to it, smearing her mouth with his taste. The _noise_ he makes, the way he falls to his knees makes her head spin--this, this is what she has wanted to experience for so long. She has craved this so much, to take the man she loves with her mouth, but Ahmad had never allowed it. "He was scared I would bite it off."

Jaffar trembles, cupping her head with his hands. "I knew he was a fool, but I never knew he was _insane._ "

She turns around, letting her head fall off the mattress. She'd heard of this position, had heard it would make fellatio easier, but still has little idea of what she is doing, still worries she might do something wrong and hurt him. But it's _Jaffar,_ and she wants him, wants him so much it hurts. And she wants to learn what gives him pleasure, and more than that: oh, she wants to learn how to drive him out of his mind. So she smiles up at him and presses his cock against her cheek. "Teach me."

"Oh, I will." He leans down to kiss her, then puts his thumbs to her lips, massaging them, then pushes her jaw open with soft, firm caresses. "Open up. That's it. Oh--"

She opens her mouth as wide as she can, moving her lips gently to wrap them around the head of his cock. _His cock. In her mouth._ She moans at the taste of him, at the salt of him, at her own sweetness clinging to him; she shivers all over. She grinds her thumb against her clitoris and thinks she will come again, there and then as he moves inside of her, only a little, his hard flesh against the softness of her tongue. She sucks a little, sucks him in, but then he hits the back of her throat and she gags, chokes.

Immediately, he pulls out and strokes her cheek. "Don't worry. I am not going to try and take your throat." Even with his hand squeezing around his cock, his balls drawn high, even when he's clearly close, he still holds back in order not to hurt her. "Only take as much as you are able to," he smiles. "It will be more than enough. Have you any idea how long I've dreamt of your mouth?"

She closes her hand around him, stroking him gently, smiling back at him. "Then dream no more." She opens her mouth and spreads her tongue wide, opens herself to his musk, his salt, his sweat. Encouraged by her eagerness, he starts to move inside of her again, his strokes quickly becoming shorter, faster, and she knows what must soon follow. It thrills her, the idea of him ejaculating into her mouth, and she cannot resist the temptation to massage him with her tongue a little, suck him a little harder.

He cries out and thrusts deeper, apologises as he hits her throat again, but she urges him on with her hand on his buttock. Each time he stops her breath, it sends a convulsion of delight through her, making her arch back on the bed, and she wants more. Oh, she wants more as he slides out of her mouth, as his cock drags a wet streak against her cheek. "Please, Jaffar," she gasps as she guides him back to her lips, "Don't hold back any longer. Let me taste you."

"Oh, God--" He falls over her onto his hands and knees, thrusting into her mouth, scrabbling for the sheets. Growling, he pushes her hand from between her legs and replaces it with his own. He grinds the heel of his hand against her mound, pushes his fingers inside of her, making her scream around his cock. "A clockwork man wouldn't be able to do _this_ ," he snarls, snapping his hips, taking her as he is taken. And then he loses all rhythm, his cock and his fingers thrusting inside of her madly, shouts against her thigh as he comes undone. She coughs in surprise, moans in delight at the sudden flood in her mouth, shivers at the alkaline taste of him, as all of him trembles around her and inside of her. And she takes him in, drinks him into herself as best as she can, holds him in her mouth until his hips stop thrusting, until his cries turn into soft gasps.

Finally, he collapses onto the bed, panting. "Did I just dream that?"

She coughs with laughter and wipes her mouth, pillowing her head on his thigh. "If you did, I think we have started to visit each other's dreams." She is gasping for breath, stunned at what she has just done, at the mess drying on her mouth, neck, breasts.

With an adoring smile, he curls up around her and pillows his head on her thighs in turn, stroking her stomach with his fingertips. "My little wanton. And here I was, thinking I would take you tenderly."

"I'm making up for lost time." She takes his hand and kisses it. "And tenderness never goes amiss."

"Mmm. So, tell me," he glances down at himself, "how do I compare to Ahmad?"

She makes a mock pout, running her eyes over his softening cock. "Let's see." She stretches her index finger and thumb and pretends to measure him, pursing her mouth like a money-lender inspecting coins.

He swats at her hand. "Oh, stop it. I've seen him at the baths. I have at least an inch on him."

"You men and your inches." She drops a butterfly-soft kiss upon his cock and smiles. "If it pleases you, I will only say this: had I known, I might have been more inclined to choose you in the first place."

Of course, he beams at her words, his jealousy having been satisfied. "What else did he deny you?"

She rolls her eyes. "Would you like a list?"

"That might be a good idea. Then we could tick something off it each night." He kisses his way up her thigh and brushes his lips over her mound softly, then frowns. "He didn't deny you _this_ , did he?"

She shivers and spreads her legs around his shoulders. She is so sensitive now, bare and swollen and wet, and the scratch of his moustache goes through her like an electric shock. She tries to speak, but the only thing that comes out of her mouth is a gasp. 

His mouth hovers inches from her, his breath hot, his eyes full of disbelief. "He did, didn't he?"

She can only nod.

"What a brute. Fortunately, you are now married to a gentleman." Worshipfully, he dips his tongue into her folds and moans in delight. "I was right. You taste _delicious,_ " he purrs, his eyes slitted, licking his lips before he buries his face in her again. She shudders underneath his tongue, the slick softness of it so different from the pressure and friction of fingers, whimpers as he stares straight into her eyes from between her legs. 

And yet he withdraws, hesitates.

"Jaffar, no. That feels wonderful. Don't stop." She tries to cup the back of his head, but he pulls away. 

"No, no," he says. "If it's your first time, we must do it properly. And I must gather my strength." He climbs off the bed and drags the tray of delicacies closer, tosses a handful of almonds into his mouth and starts piling the fallen pillows back onto the bed.

She squeezes her legs together in frustration and huffs, pretending to be more upset than she is. "You are being deliberately cruel, aren't you?"

He smirks at her over his shoulder as he prepares them a cup of wine. "Maybe I enjoy watching you seethe and squirm." He climbs back into bed with the cup and offers it to her with a wine-drenched kiss. "It is rather attractive."

She sips from the cup and sinks her fingers into his hair, twisting them a little. "Do you still think I owe you a slap? Because I'm starting to warm to the thought."

He glances down at his cock. "Don't give him ideas."

She reaches down and begins to stroke him. "Why not?"

"Well, I might spill my wine." He sprawls back against the pillows, the picture of arrogant debauchery: his eyes half-closed in lust, his hair falling in strands to his cheeks, a cup of the forbidden drink in his hand and a woman pleasuring him with her palm. He is absolutely impossible and he knows it, yet she adores him. 

Still, he deserves a little punishment. She turns the caress of her hand into a slow slide, only touching him with her fingertips, letting them dance over the underside of his cock. She strokes him thus for long moments, smirking as he pretends nonchalance and fails, as his stomach quivers, as his eyes burn into hers over the brim of his cup.

"Is your hand trembling yet?" she teases.

"As you see, my lady, I haven't spilled a drop."

"You lie." She taps the head of his cock with her thumb, drawing a string of wetness from him, a soft hiss from his lips, showing him exactly how aroused he is. "You've spilled quite a few drops already."

Lasciviously, she sucks upon her thumb and stops touching him altogether. Instead, she kneels at the foot of the bed and strokes herself, cups her breasts, dips her fingers between her legs and spreads herself, displaying herself for him. She shakes with her own boldness, as if seeing herself from afar: it's as if she had forgotten, for years, what it felt like to be desired. It is an alien feeling, to burn underneath a man's gaze the way she does now, to have someone devouring her with his eyes the way he does. 

And no man has ever desired her the way Jaffar has, even when she had rejected him, had rejected that desire because she had been so frightened by it. And it _is_ frightening: even without psychic contact, it feels as if he is seeing into her very soul, as if he could set her on fire and consume her alive, make her a part of himself and make her burn within himself forever. And she wants it; oh, how she wants it. Her fingers are slippery all over and she gazes between her legs, sees herself dripping onto the sheets and moans, loudly, her body curved and coiled tight with desire.

"Yes," he murmurs, his voice a soft caress, leaving goosebumps on her skin in its wake. "That is a pretty little cunny you've got there; very pretty." He sets his cup down and brings his hand to his cock, sighing softly as he spreads the slickness of his arousal all over it. "Are you thinking of what I could do to it? Hmm? Is that why you are so wet?" he purrs, the mockery in his voice turning her spine into liquid. "Come closer."

"What if I won't?"

"Oh, don't think I don't have ways of hunting you down and trapping you, my love. Would you like me to try?" He curls his glistening fingers, beckoning, drawing her to himself as if on invisible strings. "Come."

And by desire alone she is pulled to him, tugged towards him, unable to stay still underneath his gaze. She moves to kneel between his legs, keenly aware of everything: the bed dipping underneath her weight, the mixed scents of his sweat, his cock, her own sweetness. Every sensation is magnified a thousandfold: her own hair as it brushes over her breasts as she moves, the tinkling of her bracelets, a bird's wings splashing rapidly in the fountain outside. His thighs close around hers and her heart beats so loudly she can barely hear her own words.

"What will you do once you have caught me?"

He smiles and slips one finger, but one finger between her legs and slides it up to her clitoris.

"I'm going to _eat you up_."

And then she is on her back and he is above her, his cock brushing against her stomach as he manoeuvres her, spreads her wide open underneath himself, kissing her so hard he draws blood from her lips.

She mewls into his mouth, pretending to struggle, twisting underneath his body, and oh, how his eyes light up as they see the play in hers. It's as if he grows in size, grows heavier, harder, rougher as he wrestles her straining limbs down onto the bed, as he holds her down with his weight, his chest pressed against hers. Again, he becomes the looming giant that had once menaced her with his very shadow, the man who would summon up storm winds to have her. His eyes are wide, staring into hers; his crooked, sharp smile glistens white in the afternoon shadows.

"Lie still, my love." He takes her wrists and places them either side of her head. "Just like that. Are you comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Good. Because you'll be staying there for a while," he grins.

He pulls back and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, murmuring under his breath as he taps and rubs at each of his fingers, opens and closes his hands and then clasps them over his heart. To her astonishment, she recognises the invocation, the spell: it is one he had taught her for magical self-defense, for deflecting an enemy's power or harnessing unruly djinn. She wants to ask him why, but doesn't want to disturb his concentration, his trance.

When he finally opens his eyes, they are calm, but with a wicked humour in them. He leans down to kiss each of her wrists, breathing a rune over both of them, and her eyes fly wide in realisation.

He nods, chuckling. "Exactly. Try and move your hands."

"You--you--" she barely even bothers to struggle, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Her wrists are locked in place with invisible chains, and no amount of writhing will help now, that much she knows. She sinks into the mattress and groans from the bottom of her lungs. "You _bastard._ "

"I love you, too. Besides, now you can't slap me, no matter what I do." He squeezes her breasts and leans down to kiss her, squeezing harder and harder until she screams into his mouth, helpless and so, so aroused. He pulls back and laughs, rubbing his cock between her legs, licking at her mouth. "Now I can take you however I like. Can't I?"

She knows what he means by the words, recognises them for a prompt: here is her chance to say no, here is her chance to tell him to continue. For long moments, she stares into his eyes, pinned underneath him as he squeezes her nipples harder and harder, making her dizzy with pain. He casts his lashes down and marvels at her, at the way she quivers underneath him, the way her legs kick as he digs his nails in.

"Well?"

She cannot even form the word at first, only gulps for air, lifting her head, pleading for a kiss with her eyes, her mouth.

"Falcon," she whispers.

He pulls at her nipples, pulls her breasts up by them, higher, higher. "Louder."

"Falcon!"

He laughs, laughs, lets go of her breasts and then slaps them, making her buck and toss on the bed.

"Oh God--Jaffar--!"

"Yes?" He claps his hands all over her body, watching her twist and turn every which way, slapping her stomach, her breasts, her arms until she is glowing red all over, sobbing helplessly. She was not expecting this, did not know what to expect, but every slap goes straight to her groin, makes her clench violently until she thinks she will come but from his strokes, pass out from the sheer force of the pleasure they bring. 

And yet, he continues. His fingertips slap and snap over her legs, thighs, the soles of her feet, setting her entire body on fire underneath his hands. 

With two more slaps, he spreads her thighs, smacking them open before he finally lies down between them and smiles up at her.

"You were saying?"

She is panting, heaving, burning, her eyes unfocused with arousal. "God. Jaffar. Please."

"Mmm? You have to tell me what you want." He taps at her mound with his hand, then starts rubbing at her clitoris with his thumb. Her back arches off the bed, all of her body shuddering, aflame, and she could come right here, right now, heat pulsing through her at each tap of his thumb. But she wants his mouth; oh, how she wants it.

"Please. Please take me with your mouth."

"That's a very chaste way of putting it." He presses harder with his thumb, dragging it up her slit, dragging up the hood of her clitoris, his mouth so close she can feel his breath on her. 

She keens, tossing her head from side to side, her legs trembling around his head, her ankles slipping on the sheets. "Please."

"No, no, no, my sweet girl. That's not the way to do it," he tuts and croons at her with exaggerated patience, as if disciplining an unruly child. "You were moaning _filth_ in my ear before." He blows on her clitoris, making her hips jerk, making her drip all the way down between her buttocks, and she cannot even form words any more, only a litany of disjointed syllables bursting from her mouth.

"That's not it either," he sing-songs and wets his thumb inside of her, returning it to rub at her clitoris, slickened, slippery, quick. "Now, what do you call this sweet little thing? Where do you want my mouth? Where do you get _fucked?_ "

She panics, arching again as she feels the tremors of orgasm building up inside her hips. Which word does he want her to use? Not the hard one the kitchen slaves would, nor the flowery metaphors of the poets. The word he himself had used sounded like one a sailor would use of a wench's, soft, fond--

"My... _cunny,_ " she whispers, unsure, searching his eyes. "Please--"

"That's right." He spreads her and gives her a long lick, another, from perineum to clitoris, his eyes half-closed in delight. "One more time."

"Please, Jaffar." She lifts her hips, pleading, offering herself to his mouth. "Please kiss my cunny."

"You only had to ask." And he does as he's told, wrapping his arms around her thighs, smiling as he buries his mouth in her. He parts her with a swift lick, then closes his lips around her clitoris and _sucks._ And she had been so close, so close before, but now there's no turning back: she shouts as he grinds his face into her, sending pleasure cascading through her, crashing through her with every suck and lick. And all through it, he stares at her, holds her gaze, _smiles_ with his eyes as he drinks her in, as she grinds back into his face, shuddering in violent release. Her first time coming onto a man's mouth, a man's tongue, and she screams with its force as he claims it from her, tears it from her body. And even when she's too sensitive, twitching underneath his every touch, he continues, opening his mouth wide, torturing her with long, animal laps, strings of her wetness dangling from his tongue.

"Please, Jaffar, stop, oh--"

He pulls back for breath and shakes his head. "Oh, no. I've only just started." He pulls her hips towards himself, lifts her legs and bends her double. "Let's get you even more comfortable." He folds her thighs against her body and locks them in place with a string of tender kisses, folds her legs against her thighs and she marvels as the weight is taken off them, how she is held by thin air; far more comfortable, she's sure, than had he used ropes or chains.

He leans back and kisses her foot, admiring his handiwork. "There. How does that feel?"

Exposed is how she feels, with her hips lifted up, her vulva displayed for him, round and plump, there for him to take, to do with as he pleases. She is so wet she feels herself trickling all the way to the small of her back as he lifts her hips up higher still, her anus clenching as it is exposed to the cool air. 

And she trembles, trembles as she realises how little difference there is between this play and her choosing to be grateful instead of ashamed, her choosing to stay in the present instead of worrying about the past or the future: by choosing "falcon," by choosing to trust him, she has chosen to give herself over to the present, to give herself over to pleasure, to give herself over to love. She feels as if she's falling, the lightness in her limbs unbearably sweet as she sinks into her bonds, the embrace of his magic and whispers "I love you."

"If that's the answer I get, I should do this to you every night," he chuckles and leans down to kiss her tenderly. "I don't think I could ever tire of hearing those words from your lips."

"Or seeing me tied up like this?" she smirks into his mouth.

"You do look quite fetching. Now. Where were we?" He sucks on two of his fingers, making a show of it, then begins to slide them inside of her. 

She whimpers through her teeth--his fingers feel so thick and rough and endlessly long in this position. Seeing them up close, watching them dip inside her intensifies the sensations: the stretch, the friction. Helplessly, she watches her own penetration, watches his fingers slowly getting slicker and slicker, clenches around them as they sink deeper and deeper into her body. She is so sensitive inside, now, twitching and gasping as he curls and drags his fingertips inside of her, dragging moans from her throat, shivers from her very spine.

He leans close and gives her a long, luxurious lick, another, feasting upon her, and it's obvious it's not just for her pleasure but also his own, that of a man who truly loves the taste of a woman upon his tongue. He sighs into her mound with the ecstasy of the hedonist, his lashes sharp black shadows on his cheeks, trembling and moaning himself as she clenches around his fingers. It's as if all his pleasure comes from the pleasure he can give her, as if each tender spot he found on her body was intimately connected to a corresponding one on his own, as if each one of her shivers ran straight through him in turn.

Gently, very gently he pulls out and rubs at her with his wet hand, his fingers on either side of her swollen clitoris, massaging her tenderly. He speaks very softly, with adoration, his eyes drunk with delight. "You should see yourself. You look beautiful."

"As do you." She takes in the sight of him, flushed, his hair in a mess, his lips and moustache gleaming from her, smiling so blissfully it's as if he has lost twenty years. She has never seen him this happy, and it is she who has made him this way: realising this, she shivers, terrified at how much power she has over his happiness. Instead of a flash of pride, she feels a terrible humility. She holds his heart in her hand, and with a bruising, aching tenderness, wants to embrace him in that moment, keep him safe in her arms forever, _upon this earth and in Paradise._

But embracing him now would break the play. "My Jaffar," she murmurs instead, so full of love for him, every part of her body humming with the need to be touched by him, "please let me feel you inside of me."

"Now, how could I say no to that?" He grins and wedges three of his fingers and slides them inside her in one smooth motion, so fast she cries out at the intrusion. _I meant your cock,_ she means to say, but then he curls his fingers upwards, her eyes roll back in her head and stars explode inside her skull. She cannot even moan; she but shakes, her breath coming in short bursts as he curls and uncurls his fingers, as he sucks her clitoris between his lips and lashes it with his tongue. Her entire body convulses to the rhythm of his fingers, completely controlled by him, and she feels herself wetting his face, trickling onto his hand, hears her own scream as if from somewhere far away. _I am trapped,_ she thinks with delirious delight, _he's hunted me and he has trapped me and I have no choice but to be consumed._

And then he is on top of her, kissing her, his cock sliding inside of her, filling her, his sticky-sweet fingers in her hair. He moves into her with a slow reverence, studying her with his eyes, as if wanting to commit every sensation, every sight, every sound to memory. _I am consumed,_ she thinks again, reeling from how utterly he is taking her, taking everything that she is into himself, with such adoration and such worship. She is reminded of pagan rites, of how it is said that during the act of sacrifice, the deity worships the worshipper back and the distinction between the two is blurred. And she knows it to be true, for even if she is the one bound and spread out on his altar, it's as if he is the pilgrim, worshipping her with his body, with blood and breath and sperm.

"For so long, I wanted you," he moans into her mouth, thrusting so deep inside of her he's quivering all over, "an eternity," he keens, sliding over her, rocking into her like waves. And as he rolls into her like the sea, so she sinks into him and his love in turn, spiralling away into a trance of utter surrender, into a place beyond pleasure itself. For an eternity, he had waited; for an eternity, she wants to be his.

"Then take me," she rasps into his ear, her voice hoarse from need, "all of me."

With a pained groan, he pulls out, staggers, lowers his cock and presses it against her arse. "All of you?" he pants, his voice shot through with dark, wicked need, his eyes flashing. "Do you truly want all of _me_ , my sweet?" He is so slick, so wet from her the tip of his cock enters her, and he sinks his nails into her hips, his entire body coiled, curved over her. "Because I can give it to you, if you but say the word."

She clenches in panic, sobs into his face, clenches so hard he is pushed out of her, but he presses into her again and waits. It hurts, Merciful God, it hurts and feels wonderful at the same time and she thinks of saying 'no,' thinks of saying 'dove.' Yet her body says 'yes.' She clenches, drips, trickles over his cock and oh, the look on his _face_ as he sinks in deeper, stretching her, asking for himself the last part of her that is still virgin. She thinks she might die if he continued, die if he stopped now. She wants it, oh, she wants it, wants all of him. But she needs reassurance.

"Will you be gentle?"

He nods, pressing his forehead against hers, trembling against her. "Mercilessly so."

She breathes deep, breathes again, crushed by the tenderness in his eyes, and lets herself fall.

"Falcon."

He draws in a sharp breath, covering her with his shadow and she feels so small, so small underneath him, concentrated to one single point of desire. She remembers trembling underneath him like this before as a maiden, fearing he would hurt her, fearing the pain of deflowerment. She remembers staring at the amber pendant he always wore, at the little moth caught inside of it, fancying herself that poor moth, trapped by him and destined to become his trinket. And now she wants nothing more than to be that moth, to drown in him and to become glazed in him, to be forever carried over his heart.

He picks up the bowl of honey and kisses her wrists, releasing them. "Give me your hands."

And like amber, the honey glows in the sunlight as he pours it into her hands, as he guides them to his cock. "Your hennaed hands," he whispers, his eyes glittering with tears as she strokes him, "I thought I would never see them touch me, nevermind decorated like a bride's."

"Can you see your name on them?" she smiles as she leans back and guides him in place. It is considered bad luck if a groom cannot find his name in the patterns: then, it is said, his wife will forever be the one ruling him.

"Never," he gasps and laughs as he starts pressing in. "I'm not even going to try."

"Oh--" she stiffens around him as he moves, tensing, even if there is pleasure mixed in with the pain.

"Shh. I know. I was a pageboy, once." He pulls back, then rocks against her more gently. "Which is why I am offering you this. It will hurt at first, but after--oh--" he slips in deeper but her body still resists, the pain in her guts making her stomach spasm and she is terrified, terrified this will never work, that he will never get in, and how on earth the boys of the court manage this she will never know--

And then he is in, in, sliding past the resisting muscles, lying on top of her, sobbing, kissing her and kissing her. She cramps around him, panting, but he pins her down, takes in her gasps, kisses the shudders out of her mouth, soothes her down until the pain melts into pleasure. He lies very still, not moving inside of her at all; he but caresses her face, her sides with care and tender concern. 

"I meant to say that after, you will feel pleasure unlike any other, a pleasure usually denied to women. And that's what I wanted to give you." He sounds apologetic, worry in his eyes, as if he is unsure whether he has succeeded, whether the pleasure he meant to give was one only men could feel after all. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No. Please, kiss me." She doesn't want him to stop, no, not now, because she is starting to understand what he means as he gathers her into his arms and offers her his mouth. The stretch inside of her is overwhelming, the weight and heat of him pressing so deep inside of her, and she feels herself unfolding, unfurling for him and around him with each breath. A slow heat spreads into her hips, her stomach, her every limb, and she glows with it, glows with it, sinking her fingernails into his back, softly praying for more. Slowly, he begins to move inside of her and she thinks she will collapse, fall apart: the smallest of his movements now shakes her entire body with ecstasy, stops her breathing, blinds her with its intensity. She squeezes her eyes shut, her voice but a quiet cry upon his shoulder, her sticky hands clenching into fists in his hair. _"Jaffar."_

"I love you." He shakes, hugs her against himself. "I love you so much; if you only knew how much--" and the last thing she sees is the blue of his eyes and his hand descending upon her forehead.

Her head spins with vertigo, her point of view flips and she sees herself through his eyes, feels what he feels and cries out in surprise, through two mouths at once.

"Jaffar, you shouldn't--"

"Just for a few seconds--"

And she feels a tremendous pain in his chest, the pain of a love he cannot contain, the love with which he looks at her. She sees all he could ever desire, all he could ever want splayed out underneath him, _her_ , the most beautiful woman in the world. She sees her hair spilling like ink on the white sheets, the love in her eyes that answers his, her kohl smudged with tears, her lips swollen from fervent kisses. She sees the white softness of her flesh, the redness of it where he's caressed her, feels the pride he takes in the marks he's left. She sees her legs, bent so sweetly underneath his spells, sees how open and wet she is, the flush of her swollen sex, and lower, where his body joins hers. She sees her own mouth fall open in an O as he takes and she is taken: revels in the tightness of her flesh, hot and slick around him, his cock as it pushes inside of her, her own body as it opens to welcome him. He pulls back to apply more honey and she sees herself gaping open, oh, she's as open as a human being can ever be to another in body and soul, and as he pushes back in and slides his thumb to her clitoris she cannot take it, she cannot--

She falls, falls in ecstasy within her body, within his mind, and pulls him down with herself. He shouts, plunging, tumbling into the bright darkness with her and she sees herself burning behind his eyes like an afterimage, burning at the centre of his mind, enclosed within his heart. And from within his heart, he expands and unfurls himself around her with a golden light, expands himself with love until he cannot expand any more, wraps himself around her, takes her within himself. And in his embrace, she burns and burns until the death of all sorrow, burns until nothing remains of her but love. 

_Beloved,_ he whispers around her; _Beloved,_ she echoes back, and she dissolves into him like dew in sunlight.

***

When she regains her senses, the first thing she notices is that her legs are tingling, and she realises he has released her ankles. He lies next to her and strokes her waist with his fingertips, making her shudder in delicious aftershocks. He has the most ecstatic smile on his face as he rests his head on her shoulder, nuzzling her like a satisfied cat.

"Welcome back."

She tries to lift her hand to caress his face, but it falls back onto the bed, such is her exhaustion. Instead, she nuzzles him back, smiling against his forehead. "You are a very wicked wizard."

"I try my best." He kisses her, sighing into her mouth with contentment.

"I love you," she murmurs onto his lips, "and in case you should want to hear it again, I love you."

His eyes are glowing with joy. "I saw." He kisses her with fierce possessiveness, trembling the same way he had done when she had been inside of him, and she can still feel a faint echo of him in her mind, her own limbs aching with the strain in his as he stretches out to lie on top of her.

She shivers with the memory as she kisses him back, her mind still trying to comprehend the experience and failing. No, intellect fails her here, for her intellect had been cast aside and she had become all heart, had been so wrapped in the warmth of Jaffar's love she had lost all consciousness of herself. It is the strangest thing to have experienced: to be bound in flesh and spirit, to be taken out of yourself and dissolved into ecstasy. And in that moment she knows, truly knows what the mystics mean by losing yourself in love, dissolving into love, merging into something greater than yourself. Only her beloved is not a distant deity, not an abstract but a man of flesh and blood, warm and alive in her arms. And she would not have it any other way.

And it is flesh that is still very much on his mind: he slides his hand between her legs, down, and she gasps as his finger dips inside of her arse, sliding in smoothly, without resistance. He croons at the ease with which he penetrates her, nuzzling her breast. "The girls did rinse you well, didn't they? Just like I ordered them to."

"I did wonder why that was." She is about to scold him for thinking she would yield her behind so easily, but he brings his thumb to her clitoris and rubs at her slowly, making her arch on the bed. With fingers as skilled as his, it is no wonder, no wonder he was so sure of himself, and if he continues, she might not leave this bed alive. She is so sore, so tired, yet she shudders around him, helplessly. "I meant what I said about your wickedness--oh, please, no more--"

"And I meant what I said about spending the entire day inside of you," he leers. "I don't make empty promises."

"And I need a wash."

Reluctantly, he withdraws. "Then, stay still."

He returns with a bowl of water and a towel and insists on doing the honours himself--any excuse to keep on touching her, she quips.

"Are you complaining?" He laces his fingers with hers.

She kisses his hand. "No."

Very gently, he mops her breasts, caressing the welts he made. "I did not hurt you too much, did I? I must admit I got a little carried away."

"You didn't."

"Are you sure? I only ask because I know it is difficult to know one's own limits at times. Is there anything you would've wanted me to do differently?" he asks, with the curiosity of the engineer.

"The slapping was a surprise." She was shocked at first, yes, but now she wriggles underneath him in delight at the memory. "I should like you to do it again."

"I shall keep that in mind." Playfully, he slaps at her inner thighs, then proceeds to clean the honey off her. "And how about here?" he grins. "It looks as if you enjoyed playing the sodomite."

She nods. "I did. Although I would have you do it slower next time."

"Careful, or I will show you the exact images I have in my mind right now," he purrs and presses his thumb into her arse through the towel. She's almost disappointed when he withdraws and uses the towel to clean himself, then tosses it onto the floor. He even makes a point of not molesting her as he stretches beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist. "There. Better?"

She moves away from the wet spot and curls up in his arms. "Much better." She yawns.

He cups his hand around her buttock and smiles. "Careful who you fall asleep on. You might just wake up with me inside of you."

"I shall hold you to that promise," she mumbles into his shoulder and falls asleep, smiling.

***

On warm summer nights like these, it is to the valley that they escape the heat of the palace, sleeping out in the open over soft rugs and cushions. Together, they lie in the grass and read the stars long into the night, tracing the journeys of the constellations.

The soft darkness is broken by a flicker on one of the southern hills: a sentry, warming himself by a fire. Even now, they are being watched. Even now, they dwell in a cage of Ahmad's making, the price Jaffar will forever have to pay for his treason. It is spacious for a cage, that is true: so spacious she has rarely thought of it as a prison. He has enough fortune to live his life out in comfort here, the valley and its forests vast enough to allow him space to breathe. 

And yet.

She takes his hand. "How often have you thought of escaping?"

"Oh, often enough." He squeezes her hand and smiles. "Especially during the first few years. It took me a long while to get used to such a diminished empire." He frowns, as if trying to make sense of a puzzle. "For a long time, I cherished that wound, kept it open with all the hatred I could muster, and yet, now..." he turns to her, his voice soft with astonishment. "You know, it is the strangest feeling to run your fingers over an old, familiar wound and find but smoothness; to see the paleness of a scar but find the pain gone."

She kisses his hand. "I know. You don't miss it, then? Your empire?"

"Perhaps I am a fool, but I don't think so. No." He shakes his head, as if he still cannot believe what he is saying. "I must be getting old and soft," he laughs. "But believe me when I tell you, my lady, that I would rather have you and this valley than all of Persia." He caresses her cheek and kisses her softly. "Loneliness was my true punishment, whether in Baghdad or here in Samarkand. That was the greater wound; one I thought would never close."

She presses against him, hugging him tight against herself. "It is so strange to think that you and I shared that wound, and never knew it," she whispers into his shoulder. "I'm inclined to think that if one has carried that wound from birth, its pain is enough to drive one to madness. Maybe that is why I was foolish enough to believe in fairytales; to believe that a prince could one day rescue me from that pain." She shivers.

"It's why I turned to magic, at first." He pulls his cloak around her and sighs wistfully. "Ah, you should've seen me as a young lad; how vain I was, when I already had everything a boy could want. As you know, my father was the grandest of all grand viziers, and I was to follow in his footsteps. And not only was I born into power, I was also the the prettiest boy at Harun's court, even if I say so myself," he leers.

She nudges his arm, playfully. "Your vanity hasn't diminished much."

He nudges her back, grinning. "I wasn't as pretty as you, of course. But still, quite the catch. I had the most powerful men of the court wrapped around my little finger, and could have had my pick of the richest and most beautiful women in the land, all offered to me in marriage. And what did I do? I locked myself up in my quarters and studied magic. I fancied I could summon myself a djinni for a mistress, for I had found human women wanting. In my darkest days, I even thought of building myself mechanical companions, so disappointed was I in man and his treachery. But soon, I was to know the caprice that lives in the hearts of djinn and learn how a mechanical heart can never beat with love and affection, no matter how many glamours you cast upon it. I had power and intelligence, but as you know, power and intelligence often leave one without friendship. So I spent my days, my years, my decades ruling from behind the thrones of kings, and my nights were steeped in bitterness."

"I, too, recognise that bitterness," she says, but with a dizzying gladness of the bitterness now being much diluted, like a remembered dream. She nuzzles his cheek and smiles against his warmth, the solid shape of him curled around her. "We are two of a kind; both fools."

"And we have both made the same mistakes, have both placed too much faith in fairytales," he smirks. He stretches to lie down on top of her the way he knows she likes him to, covering her with his weight, calming her breathing, her heartbeat. "Little did I know falling in love with a beautiful princess was to be my downfall." He leans down to kiss her, his eyes soft in the starlight. "The only trouble is, I am quite enjoying it."

She wraps her arms around him and smiles against his lips. "Keep falling."

***  
END  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Annotations for this story can be found [here.](http://snowgrouse.livejournal.com/2297431.html)


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